


Danse Macabre

by cincoflex



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: F/M, Not your usual love story, courtly romance, morgue, west coast VS east coast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 46,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Charles Emerson Winchester learns a little about Mortuary Affairs and a lot about the nurse that handles them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Charles doesn't get much love in this fandom; I'd like to fix that a little.

Although staunchly Presbyterian and not at _all_ fond of rising early, Charles Emerson Winchester found himself settling in on one of the mess hall benches for Father Mulcahy’s seven AM Sunday Mass. Out of all the personnel at the 4077th, he had genuinely liked the priest from their first meeting, and when Charles had overheard one of the other surgeons commenting on how sad it was that practically no-one ever went the early service he’d decided to make an effort to attend at least one.

The morning was overcast, and Charles wished he’d had coffee first, but he sat up and tried to look attentive, making it a point to live up to his moral obligation even if the flesh wasn’t cooperating very much in the damp chill coming through the mess tent netting. The camp was fairly quiet at this hour at least. Looking over his shoulder, Charles spotted someone else coming in. A nurse, bundled up with a pale lace shawl he recognized as a mantilla. She moved to sit in front of him and bent her head, softly murmuring prayers.

Charles found himself oddly touched by this little gesture of faith; although he tended to live life with a more pragmatic approach, he recognized—and occasionally acknowledged—a power greater than himself in the world. When Father Mulcahy came in, officially vested and looking pleased, Charles gave him a small smile. A few other people trickled in behind him, and the service began in earnest.

Most of it was familiar enough for him to follow along. Charles had always done well with Latin, and the litany was plain. When it came time to pass the peace he did so graciously, reaching a hand to the little nurse in the veil. She looked up at him, and for a moment Charles simply stared, entranced by how her dark curls framed her large hazel eyes and pert nose. 

“Peace be with you,” she murmured softly, slipping a small warm hand into his. 

“And also to you,” he replied automatically, thinking she looked like a bride. Then someone else was tapping his shoulder, and eventually the rest of the service continued. When the Mass had ended, he made it a point to follow behind the woman and watched her head not to the nurses’ tents, but off towards the other side of camp, towards the motor pool. 

Odd.

“Father, lovely service,” Charles told Mulcahy, shaking his hand. “Worth rising early.”

“Why _thank_ you, Major,” Father Mulcahy beamed. “I’m just pleased to have anyone, period.”

“Not left at the Assisi level of preaching to the animals?” Charles gently teased.

“Occasionally I practice a sermon or two on the colonel’s mare Sophie,” Mulcahy confessed. “She rarely objects, especially if I bring carrots.”

“I say, Father, who was that nurse?” Charles asked, pointing his chin in the direction the woman had gone. “I thought I knew most of them.”

“Probably not _that_ one,” Mulcahy murmured, his normally sunny expression growing slightly solemn. “That’s Lieutenant Charlotte Colombe. She does the job nobody else can do.” Lightly he crossed himself. “Mortuary Affairs Liaison.”

“Ah,” Charles murmured, slightly chastened. “I see.” It made sense now that he hadn’t recognized her; generally the paperwork for the deceased passed through the colonel’s hands down the chain without much more for the surgeons to do but initial reports once a week.

“She’s a nice girl,” Mulcahy told him quietly. “One of my regulars.”

“To be sure,” Charles replied and made his way back to the swamp, thinking hard. He wasn’t sure why the sight of this particular woman had made such a deep impression on him, but it had. Was it her faith? Possibly, Charles told himself—he appreciated commitments of deed. Was it her appearance? She _was_ pretty, he admitted inwardly. Elfin with those great big eyes. Whatever the case, Charles found himself thinking of her periodically as the week went on.

\--oo00oo—

On Thursday afternoon, Charlotte Colombe looked up from her clipboard, feeling a little exasperated as she heard the door open, interrupting her concentration for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “Close the door!” she called firmly and gave a little blink when the figure moved inside uncertainly.

“Major . . . Winchester?” she asked, surprised. Hardly any of the surgical staff ever came to the morgue on any regular basis with the exceptions of the colonel and Major Houlihan. Charlotte hurried over, looking up at him in the circle of light from the overhead lamp. There were no windows in these corrugated tin walls; they weren’t needed here.

“Lieutenant Colombe, is it?” He nodded, looking intensely uncomfortable. Charlotte understood why; the metal racks lining the walls were currently empty, but each held a waiting black canvas body bag, and there were also wood coffins stacked neatly along the back wall. 

Momento Mori as it were.

She gave him a quick salute as she looked up, aware that she barely came up to his shoulder. “Yes sir. Welcome.”

The major returned it perfunctorily. “Down among the dead men,” he murmured, almost to himself, and Charlotte sighed.

“Yes, I always liked Purcell’s version of that best. How can I help you, sir?”

Her words seem to surprise him, and he gave her a stare. “You _know_ of Henry Purcell?”

“Well not _personally_ of course,” she replied, amused. “But I have the basics of who he was--seventeenth century composer, very big on ecclesiastical music.”

“Sorry,” Winchester told her and gave a smile. “It’s so rare to find anyone who knows anything about classical music around here.”

“Well certainly not around _here_ ,” she admitted, waving a hand. 

He gave a little chuckle and covered it with a cough, as if embarrassed to laugh at the job. Charlotte appreciated that.

“I’m here because I didn’t realize—that is, I hadn’t even truly thought about—the fact that we have a morgue here,” Winchester admitted slowly. “And I felt I should remedy that with a visit.”

“Oh.” Whatever Charlotte had been expecting, this wasn’t it. She blinked a little and glanced around. “Well, here it is. I take the black tag cases after the initial triage and record the vitals along with a few of the orderlies, and wait to see if any others pass away after surgery or in post-op. if I’m needed in surgery I go—I usually assist the colonel. If we can we do some preliminary embalming we do, if not, we don’t. I’m sorry,” she murmured, spotting his queasy expression. “It’s just what I _do_ , sir.”

“I understand, but you’re . . .” Winchester trailed off, looking bewildered.

Charlotte lifted her chin. “My papà was an undertaker, and his father and his father’s father before that. My family’s apartment was over the parlor downstairs, major. This is an honorable vocation. A _necessary_ job. Being a woman doesn’t change the fact that it needs to be done and done with _respect._ ”

He held her gaze for a moment and lifted his chin as well. “You’re absolutely correct lieutenant, and I commend you for it. Certainly it’s not a job that just anybody could do.”

“No more than your own, sir,” she told him graciously, pleased at his respect, and added, “sorry about sounding so gruff and all. I’m trying to complete this inventory and I’m getting a bit of a headache.”

“Perhaps I can assist you,” he offered. Charlotte looked to see if he was joking but his expression was sincere. She liked that too, and after a moment of hesitation, handed him the clipboard.

“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling a little shy. “I appreciate this.”

They moved to the cabinets and Charlotte began lifting out cardboard boxes and setting them on the worktable. “Death certificates, Identification forms, fingerprint cards, record of personal property, personal effects forms, transportation forms, special instruction forms and finally, family notification forms.”

“Good lord, I had no idea death involved so much _paperwork_ ,” Winchester murmured, looking appalled as he sat down on the opposite side.

“It’s the army, Major; there’s _always_ paperwork,” Charlotte pointed out with a little smile.

“Please, call me Charles,” he murmured, glancing down at the clipboard. “Where do we start?”

For the next hour she read off the form numbers and quantities while he checked them off on the clipboard and helped her collate them into packets all neatly paper-clipped together. The major—Charles as he insisted--was efficient and just as meticulous as she was which meant the work that would have taken three hours or more moved along quickly, to her delight.

“How many paper cuts have you gotten?” she asked him with a smile.

“One for each finger at least,” he responded. “I cannot _believe_ you’ve been left to do this on your own. Don’t you have orderlies to help you?”

“Generally yes, but I let Henderson have the day off for giving blood and Tucker is helping the grounds crew do maintenance at the chopper landing pads,” she told him. “And while they’re good guys they’re sloooow with housekeeping.”

“A common complaint,” he sighed. “Still, I believe we’re nearly through and to celebrate we could . . . wander over and see what culinary atrocity is on tonight’s menu?”

She noticed he was somewhat pink in the face and was busying himself with a stack of forms to avoid her eyes. Very carefully she sighed. “I’m afraid not, Charles. You see, I’m not exactly . . . popular. It’s the job. At a hospital, especially one like this? I’m the _last_ person anyone wants to talk to, let alone be seen with.”


	2. Chapter 2

He risked looking up, slightly flabbergasted at her words. “Oh,” Charles managed, trying not to let his disappointment tinge his words. “Really?”

At that Charlotte arched an eyebrow at him. “Really. When was the last time you saw me, before Mass last week? Think. Can you honestly remember?”

On the spot now, Charles thought hard, but even as he mentally scrolled through the memories he failed to place her anywhere. It was as if she had just arrived at the 4077th as far as he could tell. “No,” he finally confessed, his voice small. “And yet you _must_ have been around, at least in the mess tent surely.”

“I _work_ at keeping a low profile,” Charlotte sighed, scooping up the last packet of papers and dropping them in to a manila envelope. “I slip in right before they shut down service to get fed. I head into the showers right when nurse’s hours start and hang out with either the Father or sometimes Kellye, who’s my tent mate. It’s just easier to choose solitude than to be the butt of ghoulish jokes and end up by myself anyway.”

“You can’t be _serious_!” Charles protested, even as the little pang of guilt in his stomach flared. He understood exactly the community infrastructure that Charlotte meant.

“Oh I am. I deal with the _defeats_ , Charles. The losses, the screw-ups and the minus signs of this war and everyone here knows that. Just as the Army stratifies us by rank and occupation, there’s the social one too, and my job makes me pretty pariah around here. I don’t want you to be teased about it, particularly by Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt who would both give you a very hard time for associating with me.”

Charles sneered. “Pierce and Hunnicutt are gadflies _regardless_ of the circumstances and not worth my notice most of the time.”

“Nevertheless,” she warned, and he realized she was trying not to smile, “I’d rather not shake up the status quo and put you in a bad light. Perhaps another time, and thank you so very much for your help this afternoon. You truly have been a godsend.”

He recognized the regretful dismissal for what it was, but instead of being offended, Charles gave a little nod as he rose to his feet. “Another time it shall _be_ then. And thank you for being . . . honest with me, although I long to prove you _wrong_ , Charlotte.”

“I wish you could, but I’ve been here long enough to know I’m not,” she responded, walking him to the door. “History documents that the Brahmin and the Untouchable don’t mix.”

He lingered a moment outside the door before muttering to himself. “Yes, well history can be changed, Lieutenant. History can be changed.”

The night’s meal was spaghetti . . . of a sort. After accepting a tray of it, Charles looked around and spotted Mulcahy at a far table. He moved to him, asking wordless permission to sit which was granted as the priest waved agreement.

“Father, I’m curious about Lieutenant Colombe,” Charles began as he tentatively poked a meatball with a fork.

“Yes, I thought you might be,” Mulcahy responded with a knowing smile. Startled, Charles looked at the priest, who gave a little shrug. “You asked about her before, and I saw you coming from the far side of camp.”

“And here I thought Father _Brown _was the only ecclesiastic detective,” Charles murmured.__

__“I keep an eye out over my charges,” Mulcahy murmured indulgently. “What did you want to know . . . within reason?”_ _

__“How long has she been here, and is it true she doesn’t . . . socialize?” Charles replied, pursing his mouth._ _

__“The lieutenant has been here about two years and unfortunately yes, she’s found it hard to . . . be accepted among the staff,” Mulcahy admitted softly. “Not through any fault of her own, mind you—she’s very smart and has a good albeit slightly twisted sense of humor that I suspect is necessary for the work she does.”_ _

__“I see,” Charles responded blandly._ _

__“I’m not sure you do,” Mulcahy replied, his voice a little sharper. “When she first came here it was to replace the prior liaison officer who had tried to kill himself, poor man. When Charlotte showed up, our previous commander couldn’t believe that a mere slip of a girl was willing let alone capable of dealing with our fatalities and deceased. She’s had to fight for respect a long time, and it breaks my heart to see it’s still an uphill battle.”_ _

__Charles nodded slowly. “I meant no disrespect, Father. In fact I’ve learned a great deal about her work this afternoon, but not as much about the woman herself.”_ _

__“Ah,” Mulcahy murmured. “Well my advice is to ask her.”_ _

__Charles shot him a dry look. “How helpful.”_ _

__“The Lord helps those who help themselves, Major. Although if you need an opportunity, there’s always Sunday service,” Mulcahy smiled._ _

__\--oo00oo—_ _

__For the fourth Sunday in a row Charlotte spotted the broad figure of Charles seated for early services. He always sat just one bench behind her, and it was both unnerving and oddly comforting now. She made her way up, sat, and began her prayers, feeling mildly distracted at his presence._ _

__He wasn’t Catholic, she knew. Given his accent and attitude, he had to be Episcopalian, or at the very least something Protestant, but here he was, sitting through Mass and participating in everything but the Communion. And after the services, Charles always made it a point to walk her back to the morgue, lingering for a while to talk. He had even brought her coffee the week before._ _

__Charlotte wasn’t sure what to make of it all, but she couldn’t deny feeling a little touched by his efforts. They did have a lot of common interests—books and music in particular—yet she felt slightly confused by his continued presence. Setting those thoughts aside, she focused on the service, finding comfort in the Father’s soft litany._ _

__Afterwards as they began the slow walk towards the morgue, Charlotte cleared her throat. “Um, would you like to see some frogs?”_ _

__“Frogs?”_ _

__“Yeah. There’s a spot down by the creek I go to read sometimes and right now it’s got some of the liveliest fauna activity going on. Frogs, toads, dragonflies, butterflies . . .” she trailed off, not sure what on earth had prompted the invitation. Out of all the things Charles Emerson Winchester was, she was fairly certain he wasn’t a nature-lover._ _

__“Frogs,” he murmured quietly. “I miss peepers. Tiny things, hard to spot at dusk but their sweet chorus drifting over the ponds sang a promise of springtime.”_ _

__“Yes?”_ _

__“Yes. I used to take my sister to feed the ducks at the public gardens and we’d stay until twilight just to hear them.”_ _

__Charlotte smiled. “Did she like them too?”_ _

__“Honoria still does,” Charles told her. “I would very much like to see your . . . frogs.”_ _

__“Okay then.” Charlotte steered him off the path and down the slow slope of the hill towards the creek. “Sometimes I come down here to read or sketch if the light’s good.”_ _

__“Very Thoreau of you,” he replied, flashing a brief smile. “Communing with nature.”_ _

__“Or just breathing something other than formaline,” Charlotte countered gently. “Watch your step; it gets a little steep here.”_ _

__She led him down through part of the rush-filled side of the creek to a little turn of the creek shaded by a gnarled willow tree, and settled in on part of a broken log that formed a natural bench. The shade was cooler and sunlight mottled the gravel and grass at their feet as the water flowed by. Charles looked around, his broad shoulders straightening. “This is rather serene.”_ _

__“Yes.” Charlotte looked out over the water, searching it. “There are a few dragonflies, over there near that boulder.”_ _

__He moved to sit next to her, looking where she pointed. “Yes, I see them as well. Quite a striking iridescent green, aren’t they?”_ _

__“Gorgeous.”_ _

__For a moment they sat watching them without speaking, although Charlotte felt self-conscious about sharing her retreat, well aware it was one of the few places she had that was all her own. Still when she gave Charles a sidelong glance, he seemed to be enjoying the solitude as well._ _

__“What is the collective noun for a group of dragonflies?” he murmured. “There must be one, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard what it was.”_ _

__“Hmmm,” Charlotte mused. “A glitter?”_ _

__“Seems reasonable. Perhaps a squadron,” he replied with a gentle smirk. “See how they fly in formation low over the water.”_ _

__“Oh, _there’s_ a frog,” Charlotte pointed out the little green-grey dab poking a head up at the edge of the water. _ _

__For the next hour they chatted and watched the creek, savoring the sunshine and serenity together. Charlotte found herself regretting the moment when she rose up, murmuring, “Well, duty calls, alas.”_ _

__“For me as well,” Charles admitted. “Still . . . it was delightful and I thank you for sharing this spot with me. It’s as inspiring as any of the Father’s sermons.”_ _

__“My _other_ Sunday routine, weather permitting,” she nodded. “You’re . . . always welcome to join me, if you like.” The minute the offer left her mouth she steeled herself for his rejection or non-committal hum, but instead Charles gave a little nod._ _

__“I think I might at that. Thank you.”_ _


	3. Chapter 3

It had become habitual to attend the early Sunday service now, and afterwards linger with Charlotte down by the creekside for an hour or so. Charles found himself looking forward to it as the weeks went by. There had been a few breaks in the routine—one hard spell of casualties coming in late on a Saturday night for one—but on the whole ritual gave him enormous satisfaction. Part of it was simply communing with nature to a small degree, and the other part was sharing that with Charlotte.

He learned that she spoke fluent Italian, that she liked the opera, and that she painted—all insights that charmed him. In turn Charles shared his own love of symphonies and Boston and chess. 

Charlotte asked him gentle questions and had a dry wit all her own that he had come to appreciate. Once she insisted they speak only in rhymes, which was an unexpected challenge, and another time he had her guess pieces of music as he hummed them. Silly moments of course, but fun. He hadn’t had much of _that_ in the last several years, certainly. Charlotte also had a gift for listening which touched him as well, and allowed him to gradually drop a certain degree of snobbishness around her. 

“It’s bred into those of us from Beacon Hill,” he told her once. “The attitude. The belief that if you’re from the hub of the universe, then everything else turns on _your_ axis.”

“Must have been a shock the first time reality hit,” Charlotte mused, her eyes twinkling.

“Massively so,” Charles mock-sighed. “I believe I was six when I was informed that I could NOT have another ride on the carousel in the park. When I ordered my favorite hobby horse be brought home with us as compensation, this reasonable request was firmly denied. I still feel the lingering cobwebs of petulance over the whole sordid affair.”

It was delightful to see Charlotte smothering her giggles at this and he smiled, pleased to have amused her. 

“I can picture it,” she finally told him. “I suppose it’s the same hint of hubris that made medicine your calling?”

“In part I suppose,” he agreed. “Science always came easily to me; the complexities of music laid the foundation for it.”

“That makes perfect sense,” Charlotte nodded. “Surgery too is about patterns, connections, performance and numbers--all as intertwined as a melody and its harmonies.”

“Precisely,” Charles gave a nod. “Both a challenge and a joy.”

He watched her rise and stretch a little. “As a vocation should be I suppose. Time to head back.” Charlotte gave a little nod at the creek. “The weather’s changing. I doubt we’ll be coming down here once autumn comes.”

The thought left him feeling slightly melancholy. “Then we’ll simply have to find some _other_ haven for the colder months.”

She shot him a bemused look as she turned but in doing so floundered on the loose gravel and fell. Charles hurried to her, kneeling as Charlotte curled up, clutching her left leg. “Charlotte! Are you all right?”

“Ankle,” She whimpered. “Damn, twisted it hard. Can you . . . ?”

Without hesitating Charles eased her back up onto the log and began gently rotating her booted foot, stopping when she hissed. “Lateral sprain of the anterior talofibular ligament. We need to ice this as soon as possible, Charlotte and wrap it. I’m _so_ sorry this happened.” He looked up at her, feeling a sense of guilt.

“My own fault,” she assured him, looking pale but composed. “But I’m going to need your help getting up the bank.”

“Oh. Yes,” he looked over his shoulder at the path they used. “About that . . . I’m going to have to carry you, I think.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Charlotte blurted.

“Be reasonable,” Charles replied. “Even with my assistance you’d be putting weight on the sprain given the angle of that slope. It’s safer and quicker for all concerned if I carry you.”

“I can crawl,” Charlotte told him faintly.

“Ridiculous!” he snapped. “Good Lord, Charlotte, you’re _hurt_ and I’m not about to let you risk further injury because you’re worried I’ll drop you. I assure you I won’t; you’re _barely_ over a hundred pounds all told.”

Her perplexed look nearly made Charles laugh. “How do you _know_ that?” she demanded, too distracted to realize when he scooped her up off the log. Charlotte gave a quick gasp and clung to him, looking startled. He shifted her slight weight, all too aware of her little frame and faint trace of Shalimar perfume now pressed up against his chest.

A lovely sensation.

“I know that because I am a _physician_ ,” came his dry response. “At roughly two pounds per inch of height that would put you at a hundred pounds but your ectomorphic frame shaves a few pounds, ergo ninety eight or thereabouts.”

With that, Charles turned and began the climb, being careful to balance the woman in his arms. She truly was light; not a burden at all. When they reached the top near the main path to the camp he sensed her renewed protests and tutted. “No I shall _not_ put you down just to have you limp your way back. Aside from being dangerous to your injured ligament it would be _unthinkable_ for a Winchester to leave a lady in distress.”

“What about the humiliation of a Colombe being toted like a sack of potatoes through the camp?” came her grumble. “I have my pride _too_ , you know.”

“You’re not a sack of potatoes,” Charles countered, amused. “For one thing potatoes wouldn’t put up this much of a fuss.”

There was more too it of course; he tried to focus on his professional interest but underneath it were traitorous emotional pangs of another sort.

She huffed a little at that but said nothing more as he carried her into camp, heading for the pre-op door. A few people spotted them, but it was only when the door opened and Charles saw Pierce grinning at them through it that he worried.

“Carrying her over the threshold already? You crazy kids,” he called, holding it open. “We haven’t even read the banns yet.”

“Can it, Pierce. The Lieutenant has a sprained ankle,” Charles told him tersely.

“I here I thought _cystitis_ was the big problem with honeymoons.”

“Pierce!” Charles glared at him and moved past the man, setting Charlotte onto one of the tables. He began to undo the laces of her boot while she gripped the edge of the table and tried not to wince. When the boot and sock came off to reveal the bruised and swollen joint, Charles sensed a change in the room.

“I’ll get some ice,” came the quiet offer, and Pierce slipped out, leaving them alone.

“Shit,” Charlotte muttered. “I knew this would happen. I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh,” Charles told her firmly. “Pierce may be a jackass but he’s a doctor _first._ Nothing’s broken but you’ll need to keep your foot elevated for the next few days.”

“Sure,” she sighed. “Because I can do my job without getting on my feet.”

“Henderson and Tucker can do the footwork,” Charles reminded her. “We both know that.”

She grumbled again but took the aspirin he gave her and submitted to the gentle professional wrapping of her ankle. When Pierce returned he eyed the bandage a moment before draping the latex glove full of ice over it.

“So did he _trip_ you or _step_ on you?”

“I tripped _myself_ ,” Charlotte mumbled.

“Thank you Pierce, I can take it from here,” Charles told him.

“Do you even know _how_ to play footsie?” came the little jibe. “I mean just _look_ at these adorable toes.”

“Doctor Pierce,” Charlotte managed. “Just . . . stop.”

“Fine,” he mock-huffed. “And right when I was going to try This Little Piggie, too.”

“Aren’t you late for your auto-lobotomy?” Charles managed between gritted teeth. He deeply resented Pierce at the moment, and watching the man’s hands caress Charlotte’s ankle was utterly provoking.

“I know when I’m not wanted,” Pierce sighed, looking at Charlotte. “It’s generally all the time but I like to stay long enough to make his hair tufts go all Bozo frizzy.”

“Umm, thank you for the ice but I think I’m going to be fine,” Charlotte assured him mildly. “Truly.”

“I’ll just leave you two lovebirds _alone_ then,” he announced, giving an exaggerated wink and slinking out. When the door shut, Charles was amused that both of them gave a sigh of relief.

“And so it begins,” Charlotte intoned dolorously.


	4. Chapter 4

After her wrapped her foot and reluctantly gave her a pair of greatly lowered crutches, Charlotte managed to convince a skeptical Charles that she could handle walking.

“I. am. Fine,” she repeated for the sixth time. “You’ve done a marvelous job and I’ll just go lie down for a while.”

“Very well,” she could hear the reluctance in his voice and it touched her. “But I would like to check on it tomorrow, and at any point if we are called to duty it’s imperative that you have Corporal Tucker assist you as much as possible, is that clear?”

“As a summer’s day,” Charlotte assured him. “Just promise me you won’t let Pierce get a rise out of you, please?”

“He won’t,” Charles sniffed. “I’m chalking his attitude up to jealousy.”

Charlotte chuckled self-depreciatingly. “I very much doubt that but it’s sweet of you to think so.”

“Charlotte--” Then he was looming over her, his expression full of shy sincerity. “Please stop underselling your charms. You are pretty and for a Lothario like Pierce, practically catnip. The fact that you and I are friends undoubtedly annoys him enough to provoke his passive-aggressive ego into making his suggestive remarks.”

She felt herself blush, and looked away to try and hide it. “You’re probably right . . . about his ego, yes. But I’ve seen how unrelenting he can be when it comes to pointed barbs. More nurses have cried over him than anyone else in camp, you know.”

Charles sighed. “He has a good heart at times, but a great deal of trouble showing it. In the meantime, you need rest.” 

She made her way back to the tent she shared with Kellye and Patty, grateful that both of them were out for the moment. Once Charlotte climbed into her cot, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about how nice it had felt to be carried.

Charlotte corrected herself; it had been nice to be carried by Charles Emerson Winchester. He’d been gentle and strong in the process and she appreciated how he’d also been considerate of her physical and mental discomfort. She sighed.

She couldn’t let matters go any further, Charlotte knew. It just wasn’t smart. Not only was the man a brilliant surgeon who was going to have an equally brilliant career once this war was over, but he also didn’t need the harassment that was sure to come from several fronts if things . . . progressed. No she wouldn’t do that to him. 

As for herself, Charlotte felt an honest pang of pain. She’d forgotten how nice it was to have male attention over these last few years, about how the scent of cologne or the rumble of a deep voice could leave her feeling sweetly skittish. There was something special about sharing stories or witty remarks with someone of the opposite sex. 

Flirting, she supposed it was. Certainly it wasn’t like the simple friendships she had with Father Mulcahy, or Kellye. 

Maybe she was reading too much into it, Charlotte decided. Clearly both of them were solitary people who had formed a bond and that was all it needed to be. Friends. A good friendship. That could work.

And at least her father would never hear about it, which was a relief. He was still convinced she should join the Sisters of Perpetual Adoration once she got out of the army, a prospect Charlotte wasn’t thrilled about. But the alternative was worse, she knew. Her brother Frank was already running the family business, which meant the pressure to marry Ernesto would be stronger than ever, damn it.

She’d dodged that bullet by joining the Army, but it was only a matter of time before she’d have to go home and choose: arranged marriage or monastic life. At the moment, neither one felt right.

\--oo00oo—

Kellye was sympathetic and brought her breakfast the next morning, along with the few letters from the mailbag that had arrived and Charlotte was grateful for all the help. Showering was going to be tricky but that could be put off for a little while. She hummed and checked over the envelopes, making a face at one of them and sighing.

“ _Another_ one?” Kellye asked, spotting her expression.

“Yep. I know lots of girls would be _thrilled_ to get romantic notes,” Charlotte mused, “especially around here. But me . . . .”

“You should write him and tell him you’ve _got_ a boyfriend,” Kellye smirked, taking the unopened letter back. “Let him know you’ve snagged a _surgeon_. That might make him back off.”

Charlotte nearly dropped her coffee. “Santa Maria, _no_! Lord no! Charles—uh, Doctor Winchester is just a friend. You know _that_!”

Kellye’s expression was indulgent, but she murmured. “ _I_ know that and _you_ know that, but this Ernesto guy? _He_ doesn’t know that. All I’m saying is it couldn’t hurt and Doctor Winchester doesn’t have to know, right?”

Charlotte scowled. “I wouldn’t do that—use him as a . . . a . . . stand-in without his permission!”

Kellye shrugged, reaching for her hairbrush. “So _get_ his permission. If he’s as good a friend as you say he is, he probably won’t mind.”

Shaking her head, Charlotte sighed. “I couldn’t.” The thought was tempting however.

“Look, if another letter shows up, promise me you’ll ask him or . . .” Kellye waited until Charlotte looked at her, “I _will_.”

After a moment, Charlotte gave a slow nod trying not to smile. “Deal.”

Naturally Tucker and Henderson were worried when they saw her on crutches, the pair of them jumping up as Charlotte swung her way over the morgue door sill.

“Geez, Lieutenant, what happened to you?” Tucker, the more roly-poly of the two corporals set down his comic book and stood up. 

Henderson, the burly mournful one pushed his standard issue glasses up and blinked. “Didja get hoit?” he asked, his Brooklyn accent coming through strongly.

“I tripped,” Charlotte told them in a voice that wouldn’t allow any more questions. “When is Digger driving in?”

“A couple hours,” Tucker replied. “The two are ready for pick-up except for getting some signatures—yours and the colonel’s.”

“Okay, Tuck, you get Colonel Potter to sign ‘em and don’t waste too much time trading comics with Radar. Henderson, I need you to refill the carbolic flit guns; don’t forget to wear a mask this time, okay?”

“Yessum, Lootenant.”

Once they were both gone, Charlotte eased herself into the chair at the desk and checked the records for the two bodies, making sure the names, dates and ID numbers were correct on all forms. Everything matched up, and once Tucker was back with the official transfer, the bodies could be packed up for Digger to take to the airfield.

She looked over at the two forms in their vinyl lined canvas bags and sighed. “I’m so sorry you’re going home this way,” Charlotte told them quietly. “I wish it wasn’t so.”

Saying it was part of her duty too, Charlotte felt. Acknowledging that it was tragic might not help them but she knew it helped her sleep a little better at night. Moving carefully she rose again and hobbled over to tuck the papers into the clear sleeves on top of each one. The Father would be by to bless them one last time before they were loaded into the truck and that would be that for this unfortunate pair of soldiers.

The door opened and she looked up, expecting Tucker but seeing Charles instead. He shot a quick gaze at the body bags before slowly stepping into the morgue. “I had a moment so I thought I’d check on your ankle. Is this a bad time?”

She smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

Charles fended off Pierce’s barbs with lofty indifference, well-aware of the undertones of curiosity in them. He found it hard to believe that the other man had never made a pass at Charlotte, a fact confirmed later by Hunnicutt, who shrugged.

“She’s cute and all, but I think Hawk prefers women who don’t deal with the ones that got away. It’s hard to impress someone with your surgical skills if they’re aware of your failures.”

“We can’t save them _all_ ,” Charles pointed out pragmatically. “Much as we wish to, the numbers are against us.”

“Unfortunately,” Hunnicutt agreed. “Still, it means you’ve got a clear field in the romance department. Go _get_ her, Tiger.”

“Charlotte is my _friend_ ,” Charles grumbled, not at all sure himself if it ended there. The memory of carrying her still lingered sweetly in his thoughts, particularly before sleep.

“Always a good start,” Hunnicutt grinned as he headed for the camp laundry. “No point in a romance with someone you hate.”

And there wasn’t a good retort for that, mostly because it was true. Charles merely sniffed and turned to the letters he’d gotten, settling in on the edge of his cot to read them in the afternoon lull. He started with Honoria’s first.

Her note was full of cheery news about her harp lessons, classes at Marchwell Ladies’ academy and the trials of Advanced Rhetoric with Miss LaFitte. Charles smiled, well-aware that his sister was at the top of her classes despite her annoyance, and that she was very interested in becoming an author. Whether their mother would _let_ her though, was another issue, and a thorny one at that. 

_“Honoria will have her coming out and then begin to entertain suitors once she graduates,”_ he could hear his mother Pamela’s voice announcing in his head. _“The very idea of a Winchester daughter **working** is absurd!”_

Charles disagreed, both before he’d left for Korea and even now. Honoria might have trouble speaking, but her writing talent shone through in every letter, and he knew she’d already published a few poems under a pseudonym. Sighing, he set aside his sister’s note for a response later in the day, and turned to the other envelope, bracing himself.

Letters from his mother were always a tricky ordeal, Charles knew, and this one was sure to be more of the same. For some reason she always held the assumption that all he had to do to be returned to Tokyo was to apologize to ‘that dreadful Baldwin man’. Given how desperately the 4077th needed his surgical skills Charles knew he was here for the duration, but then again his mother had always cheerfully bulldozed her way through her high-society life without having to deal with day-to-day realities.

He read the faintly lavender-scented letter, wincing occasionally but it was the final paragraph that set his teeth on edge.

_Young Catherine Edgemont has become engaged to that Bates fellow you went to school with, and frankly I am keenly disappointed in knowing that ghastly old Serenity Edgemont will become a grandmother before I do!_ His mother wrote. _Charles, I know you dislike it when I bring up personal matters but we can’t let something like war interfere with the continuance of the Winchester name. I have a duty to your sister to see her married into another family, but you owe it to your father and I and every Winchester before us to carry on. To that end I have drawn up a list below of eligible candidates for you to consider as suitable prospects._

“Good _God_ mother,” Charles winced, scanning the names listed. “Gwendolyn Reese is nearly ten years older than I am. Marjorie Greene is already in a marriage--a _Boston_ marriage at that!” Tossing the note down, Charles scrubbed a hand over his face, trying hard not to laugh sourly at this new dilemma, barely aware of Hunnicutt returning with his arms full of clothing.

“Matchmaking,” he sighed to himself. “And here I thought my hellish existence couldn’t get any worse.”

He allowed himself a moment of bittersweet regret; Catherine Edgemont had been an early crush of his and her marriage reminded him that time was passing whether he liked it or not. His career demanded much of his time both then and now, and while Charles had some pride in his achievements he couldn’t deny it had come at a price.

“Matchmaking?” Hunnicutt, who was now folding up tee-shirts, looked over at him curiously.

“My mother,” Charles admitted slowly, “feels compelled to meddle in my personal life with matters that are out of her . . . jurisdiction.”

“Translation: someone wants to be called Nana?” Hunnicutt ventured, smirking.

“Precisely,” Charles sighed. “While my mother has good intentions, she isn’t about to let a major military conflict impede the continuation of the Winchester line, apparently.”

“Does she realize that Korea isn’t exactly a cotillion?”

“It _has_ occurred to her that my prospects here are slender; hence the list of names for my consideration.”

“A list?” Hunnicutt came over to glance at the letter; Charles held it out to him dispiritedly.

“Well at least she’s given you a broad choice . . . for choosing a broad, so to speak. Do you even _know_ these women, Charles?”

“I know a few of them and know _of_ the others,” Charles shrugged. “They all lack . . . appeal to me.”

“Ah, that narrows it down to _none_ , then,” Hunnicutt shrugged, still cheerful. “Mind you, you could always go with a local option . . .”

Charles blinked, startled at how quickly the thought of Charlotte flashed into his thoughts. “That’s absurd!” he protested, although without as much force as he might have.

“No more so than your mother sending you a matrimonial ukase, for Pete’s sake. Look Charles, the best way to get her off your back to have her think you’re already considering someone else. Drop a few hints, pose for a few photos together with the lieutenant and bingo, you’re off the hook for a while.”

“It’s devious and dishonest.”

“So you’re _considering_ it?” Hunnicutt asked, smiling. 

“It would be unfair and unkind to Lieutenant Colombe,” Charles replied softly. “Using her in any capacity would be vile; for this deception doubly so.”

“I bet if she knew the circumstances she’s be happy to help you out,” Hunnicutt observed, turning back to his laundry. “After all she’s your friend: you’d do it for _her_ , right?”

And for the second time that day, Charles had no quick or witty reply.

\--oo00oo—

A fresh wave of casualties took priority, and Charles found himself working non-stop in the OR, absently grateful that he needed to concentrate on what he was doing. There were more than usual, and it seemed every table was constantly busy; so much so that even Pierce’s usual banal chatter seemed to be limited. 

When he finally finished with a delicate lung repair, Charles looked around as he peeled off his gloves and waited for the next patient. Over on the far side of the room he realized that the Colonel’s assisting nurse was Charlotte. It amused him that she was only a few inches shorter than their commander, the two of them working diligently over a patient’s chest. 

“If you’re looking for the waiter, he’s getting the menus,” Pierce quipped. “I’ve already put in my drink order.”

A pair of orderlies carried in another soldier and set him down in front of Charles, who tugged on a fresh pair of gloves. “Apparently liver is the special of the day,” he murmured back, checking the chart and gently peeling back the drape over the lacerated abdomen in front of him.

“Really? And here I was thinking it was tripe,” Hunnicutt chimed in from a bowel re-sectioning he was working on.

“If you’ve got tripe in front of you then you may want to check your patient and see if he’s got hooves,” Charles replied, getting a few chuckles. He risked a peek at Charlotte, and from across the OR, she winked at him.

“And here I am with ribs,” Potter sighed. “Although I’d rather leave them here with the fellah who owns them. Let’s keep going, folks.” 

They did, and hours later when the last patient was in post-op, Charles stepped out, breathing in the chilly pre-dawn air. Autumn was definitely coming, that was certain.

Other people moved around him, yawning and stumbling a little; he held back and was rewarded when Charlotte finally came through the door, rubbing the back of her neck. She caught sight of him and smiled. For a moment Charles looked at her in the halo cast by the outside light, studying the way it lit her curls and made the tips of her eyelashes glitter. It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt the truth: _you’re beautiful_ , but he held back, feeling oddly shy.

“How is your ankle?” Charles managed.

She looked up, and in the light, he realized that Charlotte was blushing; a delicate flush to her cheeks. This reaction surprised him, he felt something light in his chest. 

“Good. Good but I should probably get off of it and get to bed,” came her soft reply. “Wow, look at that sky.”

He tipped his head up, taking in the scattering of diamonds across the velvet of the night. “Beautiful,” Charles murmured, and waved goodnight to her. Watching her walk off towards the nurses’ tent, he very gently murmured the word again.

“Beautiful.”


	6. Chapter 6

Kellye was adamant. “It’s been two _more_ letters and a necklace as well; this is crazy,” she muttered, shooting a dark look at Charlotte. “You need to throw a roadblock on this guy or when this war’s over you’re gonna be strong-armed straight into a wedding, Char.”

“He’s thousands of miles away; I can afford to ignore him,” Charlotte protested as they stepped into the showers. “He’ll get tired of pestering me.”

“Your _brother_ won’t,” Kellye muttered. “I should know; I’ve got one myself. Look, just ask the Major to be your fake boyfriend in writing only—nobody else will know but me.” They each took a stall; Charlotte was barely able to see over the top of hers as she turned on the water.

“It’s . . . embarrassing,” she admitted. “Hey, I know! What if I drop _your_ name instead?”

Kellye laughed. “Nice try, but you mentioned bunking with me in one of your first letters, hon. Just _ask_ him. I’ll bet you a can of hairspray he’ll say yes.”

“Okay, _okay_ ,” Charlotte muttered, dousing herself with diluted lemon juice to take away the faint order of death before scrubbing up. “I’ll ask.”

It was, like many things she realized, easier said than done. Charlotte waited until most of the other diners had cleared out of the mess tent before stepping in and moving to where Charles sat stirring his coffee and looking pensive. When he looked up to see her though, he brightened, and that left her feeling in parts pleased and depressed.

“Major,” she murmured. “May I . . . have a word with you?”

“Of course,” Charles told her, gesturing to the seat on the other side of the table.

Charlotte shook her head lightly. “Not here. It’s personal and a little . . . embarrassing.”

Now his look was curious, and he rose up to follow her outside. The sun was low in the west; sunset would be within an hour or so, and the air was crisp.

“Charlotte?” came his soft question. She crossed her arms over her chest and gestured towards the creek with her head. He nodded, and they walked that way together companionably.

Their usual spot on the log under the willow tree was cool and the damp breeze blowing off the water made drifts of mist rise over it like steam. Charlotte took a moment to study it before turning to her companion. He gave a little sigh.

“There will be ice in a month’s time,” Charles told her, “and snow after that.”

“Yes,” she agreed steeling up her courage. “Okay, the reason I brought you here is . . . this is so very stupid, but I would like your help with a personal situation, Charles. You can refuse of course, and I won’t hold it against you, but . . .” she stopped, feeling her face go red. Why did she have to blush so readily? Charlotte thought.

“Of _course_ I will help,” he told her, looking slightly perplexed. “You have only to _ask_ , Charlotte. What seems to be the issue?”

“I need . . . a sweetheart,” she blurted.

His startled look made her splutter in giggles, and Charlotte went on, “A * _pseudo_ * sweetheart that is. This is complicated, but at the moment my brother is pressuring me to marry his best friend once the war is over. I’ve said no over and over but since I’ve been here I’ve been getting letters every week from Ernesto and it’s just . . . _irritating_. So I thought if I could casually mention that I’ve met someone and it’s serious, and . . . oh Dios mio, why did I _ever_ think this would work?” she ran out of steam and put her hands over her face to hide her embarrassment and cool her cheeks which were now flaming, she suspected.

“So what you are telling me is that your brother and his friend are deliberately pressuring you to get married?” she heard Charles ask, and something slightly strangled in his voice made her slowly look up at him. His expression was . . . amused. Definitely amused.

“Umm, yes. At the moment my post-war prospects are a bit bleak,” Charlotte admitted. “Frank runs the family mortuary and won’t let me work for him. I doubt any other mortuary in the city will hire me so that leaves my joining the Sisters of Perpetual Adoration as my alternative to getting married.”

“And why wouldn’t any other funerary establishment hire you? You’re thoroughly professional with a great deal of experience,” Charles murmured.

“Ah, yes, well part of it is because I’m a woman of course and part of it is that my brother’s friend, Ernesto, has a number of . . . _connections_ in the city,” Charlotte murmured, not sure how to explain the unspoken truth of the North Shore. 

“Are you speaking of the . . . Mafia?” Charles gave her a startled look.

Charlotte glared at him. “Shhhh. Yes we’re in Korea but we don’t say that word, not even HERE.”

He still looked taken aback, and Charlotte felt a rush of pity for him. “Look, I knew this was a bad idea. Kellye put me up to it but I can see it’s ridiculous so just forget I ever mentioned it, all right? I can just keep ignoring Ernesto for the time being.”

“Charlotte,” Charles scooted closer to her, his gaze shifting to something she would swear was affection. “I’m not naive. Boston has its fair share of syndicated crime as well. Just how involved is this man?”

“Bare-ly,” Charlotte sighed. “He’s small potatoes, an informant. Frank likes him though, and wants him as a brother-in-law, which means using ME. So it’s either that or the convent.”

“No,” Charles gave her an arch look. “No slight on the Almighty above, but you’d be wasted in such a place.”

She gave a weak chuckle. “I’d have to get used to it, but right now I don’t feel any particular calling, that’s for sure. That’s my dilemma, Charles and I know it seems foolhardy but if letting me dropping your name into a few letters would send the message, I’d be grateful.”

Then he did the most unexpected thing: Charles laughed. Charlotte felt the quick rise of humiliation flare up, and if she’d been warm before she was positively burning now. She shot to her feet preparing to storm off, feeling a surge of tears rising in her eyes. The sense of betrayal was so sharp: how _could_ he? After all they’d shared in these quiet moments over the months . . . .

But he caught her hand, tugging her back to the log. Charlotte glared at him, fighting hard not to pull her wrist from his bear paw of a grip. “ _Fine!_ Laugh if you want to!” she hissed, unprepared when Charles brought his other hand up to press a finger to her lips. It was warm.

“Shhhh,” he told her, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “I’m NOT laughing at you, I assure you, Charlotte. I’m laughing because the serendipity of the situation has me amused. You see, I _just_ so happen to need a * _pseudo_ * sweetheart myself.”

She blinked, wary, and spoke around his index finger. “What are you talking about?”

He lifted his hand away, and loosened his grip on her wrist before patting the log seat next to him. Reluctantly Charlotte sat down again, keeping Charles in her suspicious gaze.

“This is a marvelous coincidence and I commend you for being braver than I. Frankly,” he smiled again, a little ruefully, “I was going to ask you for the _same_ ruse, but could not figure out a way to propose it without either offending you or having you laugh me off just as you _thought_ I did to you.”

“Wh-why do you need a sweetheart? I mean, a pseudo sweetheart?” Charlotte demanded, feeling extremely confused now. The relief in her chest warred with spikes of jealousy and concern, and she wasn’t sure how to deal with the emotions. 

“I _too_ have a relative who is putting pressure on me to find a suitable match,” Charles admitted. “In fact my mother has gone so far as to provide a _list_ , if you dare believe it.”

Charlotte blinked, and then the sweet absurdity hit her. Giggles spilled out of her and she heard Charles laughing as well. Whenever either one of them seemed on the verge of stopping, a glance between them would start them all over again. But finally, when she was able to catch her breath, she rubbed her eyes, feeling the ache of her grin. “Un-believable. Both of us in the same boat; what are the _odds_?”

“Long and yet here we are,” Charles agreed. Twilight was beginning to settle in and she could see his breath as he spoke. “A true farce.”

“So . . .” she bumped his broad shoulder companionably with her own, relief flowing through her. “ _I’ll_ do it. _You’ll_ do it?”

“I shall. From this moment on you and I will be mutual objects of sincere affection; a devoted duo to dazzle and dupe our dimwitted drears.”

“Delightful,” Charlotte smirked. “And deliciously devious.”

“All the best schemes _are_ , you know,” Charles assured her. “All right then, we’re agreed: I shall be your scripted sweetheart and you shall be mine. Since I owe both my mother and sister letters, I’ll add a line or two to Honoria’s letter and only _hints_ into my mother’s.”

“Oooh, because you _know_ your mother will go and ask your sister for confirmation. Doubly devious, Charles. Very Iago of you.”

“Tactics,” he smirked back. “And you?”

“Oh I’ll send something off to Ernesto mentioning your rank and skills and background. Enough to intimidate him I think. He’s outclassed but I want to _confirm_ it as bluntly as I can,” Charlotte murmured taking her hand in his. “And Charles? Thank you. I appreciate this so much.” 

He very gently squeezed it, looking down at their pressed palms. “Thank _you_ , Charlotte. If we must carry off this double deception, than I am indeed glad that it is with you.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next two weeks were more fun than Charles had had in years. The day after their agreement, he and Charlotte met up after dinner in Father Mulcahy’s tent to let the priest in on their ruse and the reasons for it. He was amused, but tentatively supportive too.

“I suppose with careful phrasing you _could_ leave the impression of a romance without directly saying so,” he murmured. “Although at some point the deception must end for the sake of all at stake.”

“In our cases I assure you it’s for the greater good,” Charles pointed out. “And since Charlotte and I are complicit, we share the burden.”

“That’s true,” Charlotte added, “I know it’s wrong, Father, but it’s the lesser of two evils at this point.”

Father Mulcahy gave one of his little smiles. “It’s not an evil per se; no more so than some of the pranks played around here. Part of human nature to my way of thinking. Still . . . I need you two to be aware that little deceptions have a way of snowballing into bigger ones. That’s human nature too.”

They decided that the fewer people who knew the truth the better, which meant only Nurse Kellye and Father Mulcahy would be in on the secret. 

“I suppose we’ll need to share details for authenticity,” Charles observed as they walked out. “My mother will want to know about your family and your taste in perfumes; your politics and your views on children.”

Next to him Charlotte chuckled. “Yes. Well whatever I write will be shared with my brother so I’ll need to know your career ambitions and what baseball team you support. Oh, and whether or not I’m pregnant already.” 

This last came out with a little bitterness; Charles felt himself blush, but he dutifully chuckled back. “As crass as all that, is he?”

“It’s both a Catholic and Italian thing, Charles. Virility and fertility are big selling points. Good lord, where are we going to live?”

“Boston of course,” he replied without thinking, only to see Charlotte stop suddenly. He turned to look down into her indignant face.

“Just like that, Boston? What if _I_ don’t want to live in Boston?” 

“It’s my _home_ ,” he pointed out, slightly annoyed now. “You know I have property—a spacious house on Acorn Street that I plan to return to as soon as _humanly_ possible.”

“But _San Francisco_ ,” Charlotte murmured sadly. “I always wanted some little place near Russian Hill; a townhouse with a garden.”

“It would never get any sunshine,” Charles pointed out loftily. “You’d have a far better garden in _Boston_.”

“St Mary’s is very prestigious.”

“ _So_ is Massachusetts General where I intend to be chief of surgery,” Charles hasn’t intended his voice to get sharp. Charlotte planted her fists on her hips, and despite his annoyance he couldn’t help but notice she was utterly adorable when angry.

“Tu non sei il mio capo!” she informed him. “This is a _big_ decision, Charles and I resent your assumption that _you_ get to make it for both of us without even asking me!”

He took a step closer, dropping his head to keep his voice low. “Charlotte, brrrrreathe. We can talk about this, nothing is insurmountable and in case it slipped your mind it’s all _imaginary_ at this point.”

And just like that she blinked and broke into a laugh, relaxing her stance and nodding. “You’re right, sorry. I was so caught up I lost track of that for a moment . . . but you know, it’s _just_ the sort of detail our families will ask. At least I know my brother will.”

“Paper,” Charles announced. “We need paper. We’ll write crib notes as we flesh this story out.”

They ended up back at the mess tent, huddled over a spiral notebook with Charles writing in his clean Palmer style.

“So, we met at Father Mulcahy’s services—very morally upright of us—and began keeping company shortly after that,” he murmured.

“Keeping company, such a wholesome term,” Charlotte smiled. “Your mother will approve.”

“Egad, she will,” Charles agreed, amused. “It shall bring up images in her head of us strolling along some lane, unsown with either landmines or barbed wire.”

“Little does she know,” Charlotte agreed. “So . . . Are you going to bring up the incident with my ankle?”

“That would make for a good anecdote, yes.”

“Because you’re the hero?”

“Well that doesn’t hurt,” Charles admitted. “And it does have rather romantic implications.”

“Fine,” Charlotte sighed. “But _I_ want to do the rescuing next time. We’re going to have parity between us.”

Charles looked up at her, wanting to say something light and flippant but the look in her big hazel stopped his impulse and he felt himself soften a bit. “And how so? As the bard said, we each have our roles to play in life, Charlotte. I would be the breadwinner and provider, making sure you and our children were fed, sheltered and cared for. You would run the household and nurture our family. We would stand together in our partnership, united by love and commitment in the endeavor of marriage.”

He was glad it was after dark; his face felt hot.

“Charles,” she laid a hand over his, her touch cool. “That’s a lovely sentiment and I can’t argue that it’s very traditional and for a lot of women, very appealing. But for me . . . that’s _exactly_ what Ernesto is offering too. Yes it would be much more wonderful with you than with him, but it doesn’t take into account that I may not want to be just a wife and mother. When I joined the Army it was as much to get away from that expected role as it was to do my patriotic duty, and now . . . .”

“Then what DO you want?” Charles asked, a strange pain in his chest. “Surely you don’t want to work in a funeral home all your life!”

“No, but I may want to work somewhere,” Charlotte murmured. “Or go back to college. I don’t know yet, but there’s time to figure it out.”

Charles shook his head. “I thought _every_ woman wanted to get married.”

“Did you? What about Honoria?” Charlotte replied slowly. “Her poetry is _good_ , Charles. Shouldn’t she be allowed the chance to follow her dreams?”

He paused, feeling a rush of confusion before speaking carefully. “She . . . her situation is different and you _know_ it, Charlotte. She’s still a girl.”

“You love her and know her potential,” came the reply. “All I am trying to say is that there can be _more_ to life for a woman than marriage. After all, _you_ wouldn’t dream of giving up surgery simply because you got married, would you?”

“Of course not!” Charles snapped, and looked down to see a blot of ink spreading on the page. “Now look what I’ve done.”

“There’s a fresh page under it,” Charlotte told him, her voice a little breathless. “We can start again.”

“Yes,” he sighed, well aware that more than just paper needed a shift at this point. “Charlotte dear, while I appreciate your . . . honesty, I think perhaps we should avoid mentioning our future plans in our letters for now and let the recipients draw their own conclusions, yes?”

“That’s a good idea,” she agreed. “It’s getting late, so perhaps we can take this up another time.”

He walked her back to her tent, both of them silent. Charles felt particularly awkward, and when they arrived, he tried to think of something to say, but Charlotte turned to him and slipped her arms around his waist, drawing Charles into a hug before he could move.

The sweet warm press of her against him let him finally relax, and he hugged her back, resting his chin on the top of her head, finding Charlotte to be a perfect fit. “Chaahrlotte,” came his thickly accented murmur.

She chuckled. “I needed this. I’m sorry I . . . ruffled your feathers. I can be cantankerous sometimes.”

“It’s all right, I can be cantankerous right back,” he admitted. “And you’ve given me food for thought. Sleep well; tomorrow we begin Operation Romantic Taradiddle.”

Charlotte giggled against his shirt.


	8. Chapter 8

The first remarks came from Carole Able, who gave a mocking shake of her head. “You’re going to jinx him. He’s supposed to save lives, not give you more work.”

Charlotte stared at her. “What?”

“I think it’s just wrong,” she continued. “Doctors are superstitious and even if Winchester isn’t the others are. You’ll rub off on him.”

“I work in the OR too,” Charlotte pointed out. “It’s not like I have the power of death in me, Carole. I just make sure those who have died are properly taken care of.”

The other nurse finished setting up the ironing board. “Potter lets you assist because the others would rather not work with you. I’m just telling you the truth, Colombe. You guys out on that side of the camp should just kind of stay there. We need the doctors to be saving lives and not getting distracted by undertakers.”

Charlotte stared at her, but Carole merely shrugged. “Come on, I’m not the only one who feels that way. You’re a nice person and all . . . .”

She didn’t wait to hear the rest; Charlotte slipped out and made her way through the camp, trying not to let her temper out. When she reached the door to the morgue, it took two tries to get it unlocked. Slipping inside, Charlotte made her way to the desk and slumped over it, pressing her wet eyes to her folded arms. Crying wasn’t easy for her but it was impossible to avoid at the moment.

This wasn’t new or even unexpected, and yet it still got to her. Charlotte tried not to let teasing get to her but comments like Carole’s hurt more than she wanted to admit. And the worst of it was that there was truth in them. Doctors _were_ superstitious. Pierce always put on his left glove before his right; Potter always wiped his glasses three times before operating. It had nothing to do with reality, but Charlotte knew it was part of their routine. They did it because some tiny part inside them felt it helped to hold back death whether they wanted to admit it or not.

She sniffled, allowing herself a few minutes more in self-pity before straightening up and wiping her face and taking a deep breath.

“Corragio, ragazza,” Charlotte told herself. “She can think what she wants. Hell, it’s a sign that the deception is working, right?”

Slightly cheered by that thought, Charlotte took a moment to steel herself before step out again, determined to stay strong. The chill of the day made her breath visible, and she realized she’d left her coat back at the tent. Shivering a little, Charlotte made her way across the compound to the post-op ward. Inside, she caught sight of Kellye making the late afternoon rounds.

“Hey Char,” came the easy greeting. 

“Hey. How are they?” she asked, looking over the beds. There were only about six patients, most of them dozing. One was groggily working on a crossword puzzle.

“Good. Most will be heading out tomorrow. Where’s your coat?” Kellye wanted to know, looking puzzled. 

Charlotte sighed. “Carole pissed me off and I took off without it.”

Kellye shook her head. “Let me guess—no, actually, I don’t have to. Just ignore her.”

“Sometimes easier said than done,” Charlotte sighed, moving to another bed and picking up a chart. “This one’s due for a fresh saline.”

Together they changed the bag, working companionably and when it was finished, Kellye cocked her head. “Listen, I have about three shots left on my camera and I was thinking I could take a few of you and the Major to finish the roll. Klinger promised me he’d develop them if I lent him my curlers tomorrow.”

Startled, Charlotte looked up as she peeled her gloves off. “What?”

“Some pictures. Put some punch into your letter back to Ernesto the Pest-o,” Kellye giggled. “And it would be fun.”

“You’re evil,” Charlotte announced through a grin. “But yeah, empirical evidence would help, if Charles—Doctor Winchester—is willing to go along.”

“Oh he is,” Kellye assured her with an impish smile. “I asked him _first_.”

\--oo00oo--

Three days later Charlotte found herself leaning against Charles in the bright light of a cold morning, trying not to squint. They were standing against crates piled behind the post-op wing while Kellye fussed with her Brownie box camera.

She’d remembered her coat this time but even so it was chilly, and pressing up against someone who was warm seemed the easiest thing to do. He gave her a sidelong glance. “Come here,” Charles sighed with amusement, and slipped his arm around her. Charlotte snuggled against him gratefully.

“Oh niiiiice,” she murmured, making him snort a little.

“Come on you two, I need smiles!” Kellye insisted, looking down into the top of her camera. A moment later she burst into giggles. “A smile, Major; you look like you’re baring a set of fangs! Charlotte come on, you’re madly in _love_ , remember?”

“Right,” Charlotte murmured, and tried to smile again, but the warm wrap of Charles’ arm around her was delightfully distracting.

“If you burrow any closer you’ll be on the other _side_ of me,” came his amused rumble. “Are you that cold?”

“A little but it’s better now. You’re very cozy,” she told him before giving Kellye a smile.

“Got it. I think that was a good one. Okay, have her sit on your lap,” Kellye directed imperiously

“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte heard Charles murmur, and felt herself blush, but Kellye just laughed.

“Oh come on, you’re already cuddled up nice. Do I have to keep reminding you guys that you’re a couple?”

“Couple of loons,” Charlotte muttered, but allowed herself to be scooped up and deposited on Charles’ lap as he sat on the crate. She could see his blush and that made her feel better.

“Your behind is _freezing_ ,” he informed her with a straight face, and Charlotte spluttered into giggles as Kellye snapped the picture.

“Now _that’s_ better!” she called as Charlotte protested.

“No it’s not! That one’s going to be terrible!”

“We’ll find out in a few hours, won’t we?” Kellye countered.

“One word,” Charlotte murmured, pointing at her tent mate. “Vendetta. Old Italian tradition you don’t want to find out about.”

“Oh the wondrous things I am learning about you,” Charles sighed. “Have you _always_ been this ruthless?”

Charlotte turned to glare at him; to protest but the move put her face within inches of his and suddenly it was hard to breathe. She meant to say ‘yes’ but it came out ‘yeep’ in a tiny squeak. Before she could stop herself, Charlotte leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his, feeling a jolt of giddiness in doing so.

His warm lips kissed her back and suddenly Charlotte lost focus on everything except the delirious sweetness of kissing Charles. She didn’t even hear the click of Kellye’s camera or her yodel of delight at the picture. It wasn’t until Charlotte reluctantly pulled back that she caught the soulful blue gaze locked with hers.

“Charlotte,” Charles murmured, as stunned as she was.

“Be-yoo-ti-full!” Kellye assured them, closing up the camera and smiling as she looked up. “You two have me convinced!”

“Uh, yeah,” Charlotte mumbled, suddenly shy and desperate to get away. She felt the weight of Charles’ gaze on her and it made it hard to breathe as she slipped off his lap and looked off to the distance. “Okay, thanks. I owe you one, Kellye.”

“Charlotte—” Charles was on his feet again, but before he could say anything the distant thrum of helicopters cut through the morning air.

All three of them looked north, where the first of the airborne Bell 13s were already in view.

“ _Damn_ it all,” he muttered, and Charlotte watched him hurry towards the pre-op wing while Kellye darted for their tent to drop off the camera. Around them other personnel were scrambling and Charlotte found herself oddly grateful for the distraction even as she licked her lower lip before heading up the hill towards the landing pads and the new caseloads.


	9. Chapter 9

He’d never before considered what it was like to be haunted by a memory, but even as he worked on patient after patient, a tiny, abstract part of Charles’ thoughts lingered on the kiss he’d shared with Charlotte. Around him the rest of the OR was a bustle of energy and concentration, with new stretchers and new casualties arriving every twenty minutes. Charles let himself slip into the quick, intense flow of surgery, working through the horrific injuries as deftly as he could; it was a sign of how heavy the traffic was that even Pierce was uncharacteristically quiet.

By the time he’d sutured up his twenty third patient though, the flow had ceased and Charles became aware of the stiffness in his back, and how his feet hurt. He straightened up, realizing that nearly five hours had passed. Across the room BJ looked particularly haggard, and Potter was assisting Pierce with a lung repair that wasn’t going well. Dimly Charles wondered if the boy would end up on Charlotte’s docket and hoped not.

He caught his assisting nurse’s eye and she shook her head. “No more, sir,” came her murmur.   
Charles took a breath and shifted his gaze back to BJ. “Hunnicutt?”

“I’m fine,” came the tight reply, and Charles didn’t push the offer to help. He understood perfectly well how BJ felt. How they all felt when they could feel a patient hovering. 

“You’re _off_ , Major,” Potter rumbled. “Wash up, rest up. We’ll join you in a bit.”

Giving a nod, Charles peeled off his gloves and pulled his mask off, dropping them into the bins inside the OR door before pushing his way through to the sinks.

The chill hit; after hours under the heated lights the air here was enough to send a shudder through him. Charles washed up as quickly as he could and stepped outside into the slanted afternoon light. Clouds hung low and he could smell the heavy scent of rain in the air.

Memories flickered in his head; the day his mother had told him he had a baby sister. Charles remembered walking up to the high hospital bed, looking at the little bundle in the crook of his mother’s pale arm; of the small squashed face and button nose peeking out of the knitted blanket.

_“Honoria, this is your brother Charles,”_ his mother had murmured. _“I know neither of you were expecting the other, but there you have it. Charles dear, this Honoria. I expect you to help look after her.”_

She was easy to care for, and care about. Charles pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids. Teaching her ABCs, collecting butterflies, standing together at the edge of the Public Garden pond, listening to spring peepers. 

For years Honoria had been the only person who’d understood him, and now that had changed. Here and now someone else _just_ as dear laughed at his dry puns, and listened to his ramblings and oh dear Lord he was beginning to realize . . .

“I _am_ in love with her,” Charles whispered softly to the low-hanging clouds.

Hearing the words made him twist his mouth wryly, and he took a breath before heading to the Swamp and to his cot. Charles stretched out, feeling his lower back loosen, and closed his eyes, not even bothering to take his boots off. 

He slept.

\--oo00oo--

By the time he opened his eyes, it was dark, and the sound of rain mingled with Pierce’s light snoring. Charles quietly rose, feeling a pang of anxiety. Pulling his coat and cap on, he stepped out into the light drizzle, unsure of his direction until he looked to the far end of the compound. He strode towards the morgue, passing under the few lights along the way, picking up speed.

“Charlotte?” Charles called softly, stepping inside. The single desk light was on, and he was aware of a silent form on one of the wall racks, but his attention focused on the woman with her hands on her face, weeping silently.

Without a word he took her in his arms. Charlotte pressed against him, clinging tightly and her sobbing increased; as if his strength had given her permission to grieve. Charles held her, tucking her in against him, stroking her back soothingly and letting her cry. It felt intimately right to hold Charlotte and give her comfort. She felt as if she belonged in his arms and Charles kissed the top of her head, rocking a little with her as the long minutes passed. Finally her crying slowed, and Charlotte was able to take shuddery breaths as she calmed, still burrowed against his chest. When she finally lifted her face to look at him, Charles met her gaze.

“I know him,” she blurted. “ _Knew_ him, I mean. Salvador. His family runs the flower shop we buy from, on Chestnut Street. He used to bring the arrangements over with his father and oh God, now he’s _dead_ , Charles. Salvador Molinari was just a boy . . . “

“Charlotte,” Charles murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

She gave a little shake of her head, wiping her cheeks. “Me too. I don’t . . . but when I recognized him . . . it just . . . _blindsided_ me. BJ worked so _hard_ on him . . .”

“It’s all right, beloved,” Charles told her. “You’re permitted to grieve. This is personal.”

Charlotte gave a little hiccup and shook her head. “Every now and then the unfairness of the universe just _smacks_ you across the face, doesn’t it?”

“Well put,” Charles agreed.

They sat huddled together against the edge of the desk, listening to the rain. Charles realized that although there was a body present, he didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable with it as a mute witness now; his time with Charlotte had given him a more compassionate attitude for the dead.

Finally the woman in his arms sighed and straightened up, giving her cheeks a last swipe. “All right then. I’m better, thanks to you. How did . . . how did you know I _needed_ you? This?”

Bemused, Charles gave a wondering shake of his head. “I’m not sure. Some thread of unease, I suppose. Were I a more superstitious man I would say I was attuned to you.”

“Well whatever it is, I’m grateful,” Charlotte told him. “Truly.”

Charles caught her gaze, holding it. “It’s odd, but I’ve gotten as much comfort from holding you as _you_ have from being held.”

“Keep that up and I really _will_ fall in love with you,” Charlotte murmured, her voice unsteady.

“Would that be so . . . _terrible_ a fate?” he rumbled, aware of how loud his own pulse seemed to be in the quiet of the morgue.

Charlotte glanced up at him, her lower lip trembling slightly. “No, but it wouldn’t work, Charles. You _know_ that! Your mother would never . . .” she shrugged. “I’m an Italian girl from a city all the way across the country. My family is working class and handle the dead for a living, not to mention I’m Roman Catholic. You couldn’t find a more unlikely candidate in her eyes.”

He pursed his mouth to keep from smiling. “True. But however much my mother believes she can direct my life, there are issues she has no say in. _I_ chose to become a surgeon over a life in banking; _I_ agreed to be drafted when I could have avoided it, and certainly when it comes to my heart, the choice is _mine_.”

“You’re . . . you’re not just saying that so I’ll kiss you again, are you?” Charlotte accused, her soft hazel eyes bright.

“No, but it wouldn’t hurt,” Charles murmured hopefully.

She laughed and brought her hands up to cup his face, planting little pecks on his lips and cheeks, dancing around his mouth for a moment before dropping a full, sweet kiss on it. Charles slipped his arms around her once more, gently pulling her small form against him again as he savored the moment.

Charlotte pulled away, her expression dazed. “Charles . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s _not_ a terrible fate,” Charlotte assured him, giggling softly.


	10. Chapter 10

When Charlotte went with Kellye to Klinger’s tent, she saw the first snowflakes start falling. The air was still, so they dropped in little swirls, landing in her tent mate’s hair to gleam like little gems. Charlotte looked up, eyes big.

“Snow,” Kellye made a face. “Gonna make everything harder now, ugh. Give me good tropical weather any day.”

“I know but it’s pretty just the same,” Charlotte murmured. “I’ve never seen it before.”

Kellye grinned. “It’s just rain dressed up for a party. Come on.”

Inside, Klinger smiled brightly. “Snow already? Sheesh, I thought we had another week before that started falling! Come in, come in, I got your prints.”

As they stepped inside, Klinger waved them to the empty cot and bustled around with a manila folder. “Good thing I got these done before things started freezing. First, the curlers.”

Kellye pulled the satin pouch out from her jacket. “Let’s see the goods.”

Sighing, Klinger handed over the folder. “All twelve shots, and I gotta ask why so _many_ of the signpost, Lieutenant?”

“Because Honolulu isn’t on it and I’m going to fix that,” she told him. “I’m sending a photo to each one of my uncles and one of them is gonna make me a sign to add.”

Klinger grinned again. “You could get someone here to do it.”

She shook her head. “I want one with the correct spelling and mileage on it.”

Klinger rolled his eyes and put away the curlers, leaving Charlotte and Kellye to look through the photos. Charlotte spotted the three of her and Charles, lifting them up gently to stare.

The pair of them standing together looked faintly silly and it made her realize exactly how much of a height difference they had. Being cuddled up against him made her look even smaller and she shook her head.

The second one where she was on his lap and laughing though—that one truly did look sweet. While Charles’ expression looked straight-faced at her giggles, his eyes were bright.

And the last one made her blush. As the heat crept over her face, Charlotte bit her lower lip, caught up in the sight of their kiss, perfectly framed in the shot.

“Wow, hot stuff!” Kellye broke into her thoughts. “That’s a keeper right there!”

“You said it,” Klinger agreed. “Frankly I didn’t think the major was the romantic type, but congratulations, Lieutenant. Should I be requisitioning lace and chiffon soon?”

“No,” Charlotte muttered, trying to look composed and failing. “But I’d like to get some extra prints of these three . . . I’ll pay of course.”

Klinger gave her a grin. “Whatcha go to trade?”

“An unopened jar of Pond’s.”

“Done!” Klinger nodded. “Come back in a few days and I’ll have ‘em ready for you.”

Charlotte tucked away the photos into her shirt pocket and followed Kellye out again. The snow was coming down much more thickly now, and they hurried towards their tent through the falling flakes. Once inside, Kellye shook her dark hair and made a beeline for her trunk, fishing out envelopes. “Okay, I have to get stamps and some pen cartridges, you need anything?”

“No I’m fine,” Charlotte told her, settling on her bunk. She pulled the photos out again, oddly reluctant to send even one of them away in a letter, even though Charlotte knew she’d be getting copies in a few days. They were . . . proof now.

A thought struck her. Inspiration.

Sitting up again, she fished under her bunk for her pastels, rooting though them to see what sort of a palette she had left. The box was there along with a few pads of paper, carefully stacked together. Laying the middle photo out on the little camp table, Charlotte took a breath and began to lightly sketch on the first empty page.

Her concentration was so intense that it took the blare of the PA system making announcements a few hours later that moved Charlotte to look up. She flexed her stiff fingers, absently wiping the soft smudges from them on the edge of her cot as she set down the pad. Shivering a little, Charlotte grabbed her coat and slipped it on, walking around to get some circulation going once more. 

She glanced over at the pad, feeling slightly pleased at her progress and moved it back under her cot just as a knock came on the door frame. Peeking out, Charlotte saw Charles there, bundled up against the flakes.

“I’ve come to ask you to dinner,” he told her. “Not that what they serve in the mess tent truly qualifies as such.”

“Oh! Is it that late already?” She glanced past him at the glittering semi-darkness. Snow had already frosted most of the landscape behind Charles, giving it a glow. “Well if you’re sure . . . let me get a scarf.”

They trudged across the compound together, close enough to share some warmth before reaching the mess tent. Inside people were clustered about, most of them chatting. Charles guided her in front of him as they joined the line. “Were we in Boston,” he murmured, “We would have a table at Parker’s and I would introduce you to the delectable delight that is baked scrod.”

“And were we in San Francisco we would be seated at Alioto’s on the wharf having bowls of cioppino with sourdough bread,” Charlotte assured him. What is scrod?”

“Young fresh cod or haddock, split lengthwise and broiled,” Charles told her, a hint of longing in his voice. “I’m not sure of the specifics, recipe-wise, but the taste is memorable. What is cioppino?”

“A tomato-y soup of fish, clams, crab, scallop, shrimp and mussels,” Charlotte sighed. “Alioto’s makes one of the best.”

“That sounds worth trying,” Charles replied thoughtfully. “Seafood is one of the things I miss most about being stationed here, truly.”

“Oh yes,” she agreed. “Part of the reason I miss San Francisco so much. Just breathing in the salty air off the ocean or hearing the waves in the distance . . . all those little background details you don’t realize you miss until they’re not there.”

Charles handed her a tray. “Perhaps that’s why we both like that spot by the creek.”

She nodded. Across the dining area Charlotte spotted Carole Able frowning at her and the sight made her freeze. Charles bumped against her as the line tried to move; Charlotte tried to turn but they ended up hitting trays with a metallic ‘clunk.’

“What’s wrong?” came his question when they’d finally gotten resituated and picked up plates.

“Nothing,” Charlotte lied. “I’m just . . . cold. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Maybe I should just take a cup of soup and head back to my tent.”

Charles said nothing but she felt him watching her, and when they’d gotten their meals—meatloaf, reconstituted potatoes—he stayed close behind as she led the way around the edge of the tent to a far corner.

They sat, and when Charlotte shot a surreptitious look towards Carole, Charles caught it.

“What is going on?” he rumbled quietly. “The _truth_ this time.” 

She looked down at her food. “I did mention there are folks who think we, ah, shouldn’t be . . . together.”

“Ah,” came Charles’ dry reply. “So that explains Lieutenant Able’s less than enchanting expression.”

“Yes. Apparently I’m the angel of death who will jinx you.”

“Bosh and nonsense,” he growled. “Superstitious twaddle not worth saying, much less believing. If a patient dies despite my best efforts then I accept that fact as fact. There is no blame, only circumstances beyond our powers. If a patient dies because of _my_ mistakes, I accept that too, painful as it is because that does and will happen despite my wishing it was not so. We’re all of us human, despite our wishes, and yes, hubris will always be my particular bugbear.”

Charlotte looked up at him, feeling soothed. “I think going to services has been good for you.”

Charles gave a considering nod. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “Although part of it is simply growing closer to _you_. I’m still a snob and very set in my ways, but I like to think myself capable of growing and learning over time.”

“Which is why you are charming and fun and I’m going to steal that dinner roll off your plate,” Charlotte told him, finally smiling.


	11. Chapter 11

He didn’t let himself get angry often; frustration was another matter, Charles knew. He got frustrated often here and didn’t suffer fools gladly to be sure. But true anger was rare and in this case he knew he’d have to deal with it carefully.

The perfect moment came a day later, when he found himself coming off the Post-op shift and Carole Able was coming on. He stopped her at the door with a quiet, “a word with you please, Lieutenant.”

From the look on her face she seemed to anticipate matters; she put on a mask of politeness and followed him outside. “Major?”

Charles took a breath. He’d thought about what he wanted to say, so he turned to look over her shoulder. “Do you know the name of the young soldier that you and Captain Hunicutt lost a few days ago?”

“Sir? I . . . don’t,” she replied slowly, looking confused. “As you know there are so _many_ that come in . . . .”

“Agreed. Dozens. Hundreds in the course of the months. And not all of them survive. His name was Salvadore Molinari. Sergeant Salvadore Molinari.”

She looked at him, still not understanding, and Charles met her gaze. “Lieutenant Colombe knew him. He was a young man from her neighborhood. A friend.”

“Oh.” Now Carole Able looked stricken.

“This time the matter was personal. She will not only be the one to make sure that his body arrives home safely to be buried with honors, but she is also the one who has written to his mother to tell her how brave he was. And she did this because _someone_ must comfort that family. Oh I’m sure his commanding officer will write a letter and there will be a formal condolence from the Army, but Charlotte has taken the time to write personally about the boy she knew to his relatives. I’m telling you this because however _you_ feel about what she does as a Mortuary Liaison, she is a person who deserves respect and simple human dignity. Her job is difficult enough without having to endure disdain and superstition from fellow nurses.”

“Sir,” Carole had the grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t mean . . . it’s just . . .”

Charles narrowed his gaze. “Would _you_ do her job?”

“No! I couldn’t!”

“Precisely,” he nodded. It was gratifying to see that sink in, and Carole Able began to nod back slowly in understanding.

“I’ll . . . okay,” she murmured and shifted to move through the door to Post-op. Charles didn’t bother to watch her go; instead he made his way to the swamp and the letters he was about to send.

_Dear Honoria,_

_Thank you for your last; I have every faith you will manage to come through your classes with flying colors as usual. Teachers may seem fierce and formidable but inside they mean well. I suspect yours know your potential and are insuring you shall live up to it. Remember they ARE human even if they hide it well._

_This week it has snowed and I appreciate the new socks more than I can tell you. My tent mates are deeply envious and I do my best not to flaunt my apparel but the Argyll does stand out against the olive drab. Thank you again for sending them. They may not be in line with regulations but warmth trumps everything at the moment._

_By the by, I have met someone recently, a young lady who hails from San Francisco. I hesitate to mention her to Mother but will confess to you that she is rapidly becoming quite dear to me and I am wondering what to give her for Christmas. Any suggestions you have in that department would be greatly appreciated. She is an artist and enjoys opera as well as frog watching._

_With love and affection,_

_Charles_

He smiled to himself, aware that his sister would understand that last comment. Picking up a fresh sheet of paper, Charles began his second letter.

_Dearest Mother,_

_Thank you for the socks. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, especially now that it has begun snowing here and their warmth is the envy of my peers. The Argyll is particularly cheerful at this time of year._

_In regards to your last missive, I feel that while your intentions about my future come from the right place, now is not the time to make any active pursuit per se. I would much rather consider matters once I am back in Boston and can follow up on them in person instead of in writing. Further, the list you sent while comprehensive does have several candidates who through no fault of their own are . . . unsuitable for one reason or another. I hesitate to give specific reasons but suggest you have your friend Constance Collins for tea; she can explain my meaning, particularly in regard to Marjorie Greene._

_Fortunately I do have company here and share a Sunday morning pew with a charming Lieutenant so I am not without prospects even in Korea. Give Father my best regards and do let me know how Thanksgiving turns out this year.  
With deep affection always,_

_Charles_

Looking over the letters he gave a nod; the pair of them would certainly set the cat among the pigeons and at the very least re-direct his mother’s focus. Charles gave a little sigh, pleased that neither note was false. He tucked them into their stamped envelopes, sealed them and carried them to the mail drop, feeling a sense of satisfaction. 

It was early for dinner so he made his way down to the creek, being careful not to slip on what little snow dusted the ground. Once under the bare, wiry branches of the willow, Charles looked out over the water, enjoying the way the dark flow of it cut through the pale landscape. There were no frogs now, but he spotted a crane on the far bank, and squirrels chasing each other through the overhanging limbs of distant trees.

A sound behind him made Charles turn; Charlotte was carefully stepping down to join him.

“Your ankle is _barely_ healed,” he chided, moving to take her arm.

“Pfft,” she responded coming to lean against him, “I’m fine. Ohh, is that a crane?”

“Yes. Looks miserable, doesn’t he?” Charles observed, feeling a rush of warmth that wasn’t entirely physical.

“Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have your fancy socks to keep his feet warm,” Charlotte chuckled and he joined her. They watched the creek for a moment longer, and Charles slid his arm around her.

“Charles,” she began quietly leaning against him, “I have a confession to make.”

This sounded serious and he gave her a sidelong glance, looking at her pale little face. She looked sweetly elegant with her dark curls and long eyelashes.

“If you’re going to tell me that _you_ want my socks . . . I would probably give them to you,” he rumbled, hoping to lighten her mood and make her smile.

“No,” Charlotte snickered. “Not that. It’s just that . . . I haven’t had many . . . suitors. So I’m not precisely sure how it’s done. This . . . relationship aspect.”

“Ah,” he murmured, feeling a little relieved. “Well, not that I’m an expert, but appearing in public together is part of it, as is expressing a degree of affection.”

“Um, about that . . . .” she trailed off and Charles kept gazing at her until her courage returned. “I’m, I’m a virgin.”

He took a breath. “Yes, well everyone starts that way.”

“I’m not ashamed of it, but I am a little . . . _embarrassed_ I guess,” Charlotte continued in a rush. “Being a good Catholic girl and all, and now I’m considered zitelle because I’m over twenty-five.”

“Zitelle?” He asked.

“An old maid,” she sighed, and it was so melodramatic that he snorted, hugging her a little tighter with his free arm.

“You’re anything but,” Charles assured her. “And experience . . . can be overrated.” He hadn’t meant to sound bitter but it came out that way and when she looked up at him, Charles felt his face heat up.

“I hope you won’t think less of me when you hear this, but when I reached my eighteenth birthday my father took me to dinner and then a house of ill repute in Scollay Square. It was . . . traditional. A Winchester rite of passage I suppose and while the flesh was willing it was hardly the sort of memory one thinks back on fondly, if at all.”

“I guess not,” she sighed. “For my eighteenth I got a gold crucifix.”

“You got the better present. Still, I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about you . . . carnally. I’m sorry but it is the truth,” he confessed, heart pounding now. 

“You have?” her tone was almost joyous. “Oh thank God I’m not the _only_ one!”


	12. Chapter 12

The startled look on Charles’ face was priceless and despite her own blush, Charlotte spluttered into giggles, hugging him a little more tightly. “I know, shameful but true. I should say Hail Marys for it but I’m not actually contrite.”

“Charh-lotte Lucia Colombe,” he drawled out, eyes bright. “Just when I think I know you, you spring the most _outrageous_ pronouncements on me.”

She pointed up accusingly at him. “You _started_ it! Besides, it’s not outrageous, it’s a natural progression. You’re not only brilliant and kind but you’re . . .” Charlotte waved her hands helplessly, “this big gorgeous _bear_ of a man who smells lovely and is always warm and gentle. Of _course_ I’m attracted to you on a physical level. I think it goes back to when you lugged me back to camp.”

“I did not _lug_ , I merely carried,” Charles objected, “it was hardly difficult.”

“Qualunque cosa!” Charlotte interjected. “Whatever. The point is, I . . . have feelings for you that are . . . somewhat lustful.”

Charles still looked stunned by this, but at least he was smiling now, and she took that as a good sign. “ _Some_ what lustful?”

“I have to start somewhere,” Charlotte admitted. “Charles, I’ve kissed three people before you, and two of them were mere boys. I’m smart enough to know what happens between men and women but not worldly enough to have experienced it, all right?”

He reached down to brush a curl from her forehead. “I’m not entirely sure I can handle being lusted after by a virgin, sweet girl.”

“I . . .” she let her voice drop, “don’t have to _stay_ that way.”

That made him shoot her a sharper look, the spots of high color on his face standing out in the cold air around them. “Charlotte, _don’t._ Giving yourself is a precious gift, and while I am flattered and humbled and yes, aroused, I respect it enough to wait.”

Startled herself now, Charlotte blinked. “You . . . what?”

“Wait,” he repeated, his expression becoming wryly tender.

“Wait?” she spluttered, fear and hilarity in her voice. “But what _for_? Charles, I love you but it’s not as if we’re getting married—"

He cut her off. “--Why _not_? Perhaps this started under less than honest conditions but the fact is that I _love_ you, Charlotte. I love you and I _want_ to marry you!” Charles looked flushed but his chin was firm as he held her gaze with his.

A wave of heat rushed through her. Charlotte knew she was staring up at him but any sensible reply she could make wasn’t coming forth. Finally she gave a little shake and took a breath. “Well I love you too, but look where we _are_ , Charles! A war zone, far from our families and, and stations in life. Korea won’t last—we’ll be going back to the states and things will be _very_ different. Probably _too_ different for us to be together.”

“Bosh!” Charles roared. He scooped her up, holding her against him. “If there is anything at _all_ this infernal war has taught me, anything I have learned watching you do _what_ you do, it’s that life is _fleeting_ , Charlotte my love. No boy ever asked to be wounded, or to die. They’re cut short or cut down before they’ve had a chance to live. I don’t intend for that lesson to be lost on _us_. I love you and I want you by my side because with you I. Am. Happy.”

She burst into tears, the heat of them chilling quickly as they slid down her cheeks. “Ti amo an’chio!” Charlotte slid her arms around his neck and kissed Charles blindly, finding his mouth more by luck than skill. Fortunately once she found it, the kisses were sweet all the same.

Taking a breath, Charlotte sniffed, whispering, “You can set me down now.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Charles told her. “You’re exceedingly warm and beautiful.”

“Well thank you, but we can’t stay here much longer without freezing,” came her pragmatic reply, “and it’s meatloaf night.”

“All the more reason to stay right _here_ ,” Charles muttered dryly, but he set her down again, bending to rub his cold nose against hers. “I meant what I said, dearest; I hope you know that.”

Charlotte nodded, shyness making her voice slightly squeaky. “Yes, and I meant it too. It’s all a bit . . . unreal.”

They made their way up the bank and arm in arm, walked towards the lights of the camp. Charlotte slowed her steps as they got closer, and turned to stop Charles from going any further.

“I think we should keep this between us for the time being,” she told him quietly. “Just go on as we are.”

“You mean as good friends who became fake sweethearts and then became genuine sweethearts but in secret. I think everyone is going to demand scorecards,” Charles replied, but he was smiling as he said so.

“Er, yes,” Charlotte snickered back. “Something like that.”

“Very well, although I cannot be held accountable if my ersatz affection hints at the genuine article underneath.”

\--oo00oo—

It weighed on her, and finally Charlotte worked up her courage to approach Father Mulcahy a few days later. He was coming out of the Post-Op ward striding cheerfully when she fell into step with him and he slowed, giving her a sidelong smile.

“Good morning lieutenant. Doing well today?”

“Good morning Father. Um, yes. I am but . . . may I speak with you?”

He slowed even further. “As a priest, or as a friend?”

“Both?” Charlotte asked uncertainly.

His smile widened and he gave a nod, turning his stride towards his tent where he ushered her inside and settled Charlotte onto one of the camp chairs before taking a seat on the one across the little table.

“If I were to guess,” he began slowly, “I’d say that matters between you and the Major have changed.”

Charlotte exhaled a great gust of a sigh. “Yes! It turns out we really _are_ . . . in love.”

“I know,” Father Mulcahy twinkled at her, and she felt herself blush at his mischievous expression. “To be fair it was pretty apparent after a while.”

“Well _we_ didn’t know. Until recently that is,” Charlotte murmured defensively. 

“I know that too,” Father Mulcahy pointed out, still smiling. “Perhaps it was a matter of proximity. In any case, I’m delighted for you both and hope that you will drop the charade and enjoy what you have.”

“No it’s still on,” she admitted. “Because . . . well it’s just I don’t think Charles has thought this through. I haven’t either but I’m just realizing now how terribly complicated this all is.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” came Mulcahy’s soft comment. “The fact that the two of you love each other seems fairly straightforward to me.”

“Yes but that’s here and now!” Charlotte squirmed a little. “He’s not even Catholic and when this war is over we’ll be going back to two very separate worlds. There’s no way his mother will let him marry someone like _me_!”

“Hmmm,” Father Mulcahy nodded slowly, “tell me, is the major worried about this as well?”

“No,” Charlotte admitted. “He seems to think it will all work out just fine, but I know differently. Part of it is my work—I’ve seen how family dynamics happen, Father, especially in emotional situations. I’ve had to stop fistfights at funerals, and break up shouting matches.”

He gave her a wry smile. “I’ve been there myself, Charlotte, so yes. However, you both have an advantage you’re not using, and that is time. You and Charles have the opportunity to share your time here together without anyone else interfering. It’s a chance to strengthen your bond and plan for the future. Instead of fearing what might happen, lay some groundwork for what you _want_ to happen.”

She stared at him for a moment, taking in his serene demeanor. Part of the reason Charlotte liked him, she realized, was his capacity for calm in such chaotic surroundings. Father Mulcahy was an anchor. “Plan,” she echoed softly, taking comfort in the word.

“Plan,” he agreed. “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

“What about sex?” she blurted before she could stop herself and it was amusing to see red flush over the Father’s fair complexion.

“Planning helps there too, although there’s a fine line between my official stance and the practicalities of being in a war zone,” he murmured. “Charlotte, as your priest I have to promote abstinence before marriage and encourage the two of you to that. However,” he sighed quietly, “as a friend, I will add that the Lord wouldn’t have brought the two of you together without a degree of physical attraction, and there is a considerable . . . range . . . of activities the two of you can indulge in without condemnation.”

For a moment neither of them could look at each other, and finally Charlotte gave a giggle. “Okay, now I feel foolish and relieved.”

“Welcome to the club, my child,” Mulcahy murmured, managing a grin. 

After a quick prayer together, Charlotte left Father Mulcahy’s tent, feeling lighter than she had in days. She picked up her mail, finding letters from both Ernesto and her brother waiting for her. For a moment she debated which to open first, and chose her brother’s with a moue of distaste.

_Char,_

_So what’s this about you and some surgeon? ‘Nesto tells me he got a letter from you—finally—and you said you were seeing someone? When were you planning on telling ME? You know Papà and I want the best for you. We let you join the Army because they needed people who could be morticians, but this is a limited thing, sorellina._

_So who is this guy? Is he staying in the Army? How much does he pull in a year? You’re not pregnant are you? Before you get all uptight, remember family sticks together and I’m a little pissed I have to hear news like this from ‘Nesto first. I’m not happy Char, not at all._

_Papà says hi and stay safe. Oh, and the Molinaris say thank you for what you did for Salvador. You did good there._

_Franco_

Charlotte tossed the letter onto her bedside table and opened the other one.

_Dear Charlotte,_

_So I hope you’re happy with this surgeon guy but if it doesn’t work out, I’m always here if they don’t. I’m gonna keep writing so you don’t forget me, yeah? It’s good to get letters from home, where people know you and care about you._

_I’ll be waiting,_

_Ernesto_

The next note, she decided, would include the photos. THAT might end this passive-aggressive nonsense.


	13. Chapter 13

The weather stayed cold, and unfortunately the continued chill that carried through Thanksgiving brought with it the flu. It hit the 4077th in two waves, the first one putting half the corpsmen out of commission for a few weeks and the second round passing through the doctors and nurses after that.

Charlotte was spared but Charles was not; it hit him hard enough to warrant a bed in an isolated section of Post-Op along alongside Hunnicutt and Houlihan. He shivered even through his fever and fretted about being a burden and not doing his share of work, but to no avail. Potter gruffly ordered the three of them to ‘cooperate and recuperate’ or he’d be forced to evacuate them to Seoul.

Charles barely heard him. For three days he lay caught between exhausted sleep and delirium, his head full of strange and twisted visions every time he closed his eyes. He pictured the Georgian buildings of Choate wobbling like gelatin; dazzling snow dancing across Boston Harbor; hummingbirds with his sister’s face. 

When he finally managed to stay awake long enough to eat something more than just soup it was nearly a week later. Houlihan was already back on her feet, shaky but determined and Hunnicutt was back in the swamp, sleeping.

Charlotte brought Charles his mail and sat next to him, drawing one of the canvas curtains to give them some privacy. He tried to focus but couldn’t; peevishly he pushed it towards Charlotte. “I can’t squint; it hurts,” Charles grumbled.

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

“Yes,” he rubbed his eyes as she opened the envelope.

“Dear Charles,” Charlotte began slowly. “Your last note was a surprise to be sure but then again you’ve always had a bit of an independent streak for which I blame your grandfather. I’ve taken it upon myself to interrogate your sister so don’t be coy with me; who is this girl . . .” she trailed off, looking guilty.

He glanced over at Charlotte before pulling the letter from her fingers and forcing himself to scan it. “Who _is_ this girl and how pray tell does this person I’ve never heard of before merit a Christmas gift . . . oh dear lord, Mother!” He crunched the expensive stationary into a ball and flicked it away before irritably slumping back onto the bed. “Of all the unmitigated _gall_!”

“She means well,” Charlotte murmured helplessly.

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “No she doesn’t. I’ve blundered _horribly_ by underestimating her capacity to be a busybody. Worse, to have her badgering Honoria is insufferable. Family: why must they be such pains in the ahss?” his accent came out more strongly than ever.

“Because they love you and they’re scared for you,” Charlotte reminded him as she moved to tuck the blanket edges in around him. “You’re in a war zone and I am just another unknown potential threat.”

Charles gave a bitter chuckle. “The only threat is my mother’s fear that I’ll marry below my class, which I fully intend to _do_ at this point.”

When he looked at Charlotte, her face had paled. She pushed herself up from the edge of his bed and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Below your class?” she whispered.

“Charlotte—” Charles interjected, feeling a stab of panic. “I didn’t mean it _that_ way!”

She lifted her chin and glared at him. “You just _said_ you’d use me to get back at your mother . . . oh you _meant_ it, even if you won’t _admit_ it, Charles. Deep down inside you’re still the Brahmin you’ve always been and you’ll never change. I don’t know why I ever thought you would. Well rest assured your mother’s got nothing to worry about from _this_ Italian peasant anymore, capisce?”

“Charlotte!” Charles tried to sit up. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I’m not,” she snarled, walking around the curtain. “I’m offended and _hurt_ , Major Charles Emerson Winchester the THIRD.”

He tried to climb out of bed but the dizziness prevented him from rising and Charles gritted his teeth as he tried to keep from listing as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Damn it!” he growled to the empty air. “That’s not what I meant at _all_!” Even as he said it though, a pang of guilt hit Charles and he dropped his face into his hands.

It was there, deep inside. A faint trace of bigotry lingered in him and he knew it. Despite what time, intelligence, and compassion had done to erase it, Charles knew the little echoes of his upbringing and early indoctrination were still there, like scar tissue.

And like a scar, it shamed him.

Another wave of dizziness hit him and he shivered, feeling miserable. Slowly he climbed back under the covers and huddled there, feeling a growing sense of resentment. “She’s simply too sensitive,” Charles tried to convince himself. “She knows I didn’t _mean_ it.”

But she didn’t return, and later that evening when Charles heard footsteps headed his way he perked up, only to deflate when Father Mulcahy peeked around the curtain.

“How are you feeling, Major?” came the tentative question.

“Terrible,” Charles replied, deflated. “I’m tired and useless and on top of that I’ve inadvertently offended Charlotte. Other than that . . .”

“Oh dear,” Father Mulcahy stepped around the curtain and sat in the bedside chair. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Tell me Father, why are women so . . . .“ at a loss for words, Charles gave a sigh.

In return, Mulcahy smiled his little patient smile and shrugged. “They’re not an area of expertise for me, but generally speaking, when people take offense it’s because something hasn’t lived up to their expectations.”

Charles mulled on that for a moment, and turned his head to look at the priest. “So I’ve let Charlotte down.”

“Without knowing the particulars, I’d say yes?” Mulcahy offered apologetically. “Given how much she cares for you this is probably an important issue.”

Sitting up, Charles scowled and told Father Mulcahy exactly what had transpired, watching the priest wince when he reached the end.

“Ah, that would _do_ it,” Father Mulcahy agreed. 

“But I didn’t mean it!” Charles pointed out. “At least not like that. I don’t care about what schools Charlotte’s gone to or hasn’t gone to, or how much money her family has or doesn’t have or what social connections she’s made or hasn’t made. Those don’t matter in the _least_ to me.”

“Well they matter enough that you’d use them—or the lack of them-- against your mother’s expectations,” Father Mulcahy pointed out gently, “and that’s the unkindness right there.”

Charles felt mulish, but Father Mulcahy shook his head and spoke again. “Tell me Major, what did the rest of your mother’s letter say?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I threw it . . . somewhere over _there_.”

The priest retrieved the crumpled ball of stationary and handed it back to Charles, who smoothed it out again, still feeling slightly resentful. He read it over quickly and glanced up, startled.

“She . . . wants to get Charlotte a gift. My mother writes, ‘Who is this girl and how pray tell does this person I’ve never heard of before merit a Christmas gift? She must be someone very special, Charles, and I would like to know her better for that reason alone. Honoria and I will go shopping forthwith for hats and gloves since that seems the most practical thing for the season.”

Father Mulcahy’s smile broadened. “That sounds promising.”

“It does,” Charles nodded absently, and then looked up. “Charlotte. She must read the rest of this. I have to find her.”

“Maybe it should wait until tomorrow,” Father Mulcahy suggested, slightly alarmed as Charles threw back his covers and moved to climb out of bed.

“No, no, Father, this cannot wait. I’ve been miserable all day, stewing in my pride and it’s time to rectify things.”

“Well then let me bring her here,” Mulcahy suggested. “It’s freezing outside and I don’t want you to risk a relapse.”

After fifteen minutes a very reluctant Charlotte appeared around the edge of the curtain. Her eyes were puffy enough to let Charles know she’d been crying but she didn’t come any closer than the foot of the bed. “I’m only here because the Father asked me,” she announced stiffly.

“Charlotte, how do I say ‘I’m an idiot’ in Italian?” Charles asked softly.

Her lips twitched and after a second she replied, “Sono un idiota.”

“Sono un idiota,” He thumped his chest for emphasis and added, “Read the rest of the letter,” as he held out the wrinkled paper.

For a moment she looked as if she wouldn’t take it, but after an agonizing pause Charlotte did, moving closer to do so. She looked down at the page and then up again when she reached the end of the text.

“She . . . wants to get to know me. That’s . . . nice.”

“Yes,” Charles agreed. “And in this moment my mother is far kinder than I was. Charlotte, you were right. I’m flawed. There exist within me these lingering . . . beliefs that I’m ashamed of harboring. Being here, being with you shows me what the truth is, and I am _trying_ to change. Please give me a second chance, my love.”

Charlotte moved closer, coming to sit next to his hip as she slipped her arms around him and hugged Charles for a long moment before speaking against his chest. “I’m flawed too. I feel I can’t possibly live up to your expectations and I want to so much, Charles. It’s as if I’ll _always_ be Liza Doolittle to your Henry Higgins.”

“The very fact you’ve read Pygmalion belays that,” he replied. “As for expectations, all I want is for you to be _happy_ , beloved. Since I cannot change overnight, I’m counting on you to hold me accountable for any future occasions of excessive snobbery.”

“Happy,” Charlotte murmured. “I am now. You’re on the mend, we’re not at odds, I’m in a bed with you . . .”

“In a manner of speaking,” Charles chuckled, cuddling her close. “What do you want for Christmas?”

“Dinner,” Charlotte sighed, “in Tokyo.”


	14. Chapter 14

And he arranged it. Charlotte couldn’t believe how Charles at taken her whim seriously. He’d wrangled, bartered, and worked bureaucratic magic to get them both three day passes the week before Christmas. She was astounded at his efficiency, and deeply touched by his gesture.

“It will do us both good to get away from this place for a while,” he had rumbled to her as they left services on Sunday. “I’m taking Hunnicutt’s post-op for the next few days to make sure all’s fair, and I’ve agreed to cover for Pierce’s Officer of the Day duties until we leave.”

Charlotte was reluctant to ask Kellye to take on Morgue duties during her three day trip but oddly, Carole Able volunteered to do it. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Charlotte agreed, and told Tucker and Henderson to help the Lieutenant as much as possible and they assured her they would.

So after a quick jeep trip to Seoul and a two hour flight along with other officers on a freezing Douglass C-47, she and Charles were at Yokota Air Base, chilled but thrilled as they checked in to the boq building. Their rooms were side by side at the end of the wing, and Charlotte noted that although each austere room had single beds they were far more generously proportioned than the cots back at the 4077th. There was also a small shower and tub for each, and she eyed hers with plans for at least one bath if not more.

The door to Charles’ room was open but she knocked anyway, amused at seeing him unpacking so fastidiously.   
“Tidy. I approve,” she told him as she stepped in and closed the door behind her.

“It’s easier in the long run. So,” he finished tucking away the folded shirts into the dresser and turned to her. “We are here. Shall we make plans?”

Charlotte nodded, coming into the room and sitting on the desk chair. She felt self-conscious and happy at the same time, well-aware of the bed nearby. Charles came over, pulling something from his breast pocket. A list.  
“There is a show at the kabuki-za late this afternoon that I thought we might take in, if you’re interested.”

“Kabuki?” she murmured, pleased. “Well we won’t know what they’re saying but I’d love to see it.”

“Rather like opera,” Charles agreed. “It’s beautiful to watch and one gets a general sense of the story through the theatrics.”

“Then yes. What else?”

“Dinner,” he smiled. “As promised. I have a list of suggestions gleaned from sources I trust.”

“Ooooh,” Charlotte chuckled. “What time is the performance?”

“Four, so we have time to sight see or shop or whatever you’d like to do,” Charles assured her. “We have time.”

She looked up at him, holding his gaze. He looked back at her and in that mutual stare Charlotte felt her face heat up even as she saw him redden as well. Before her courage failed her, she rose out of her chair and reached out her hands to cup his warm cheeks.

“I want,” she said softly, thickly, “you. A little more of _you_ , dear. Would . . . would that be all right?”

He gave a wry smile, his expression open and vulnerable. “Oh Charh-lotte. When you look at me like that, I can’t say no. But,” Charles sighed, “I’m not handsome. I’m awkward and balding and not particularly well-versed in . . . physicality.”

“Me either,” she pointed out. “I’m short and bony and flat-chested.”

Charles chuckled. “To me,” he told her softly, “you are perfect.”

“Prove it,” she challenged, and pulled him towards the bed.

They stretched out together, kissing and cuddling for a long while. For once Charlotte was glad of her size because although the fit was close it was comfortable. She plucked at Charles’ shirt buttons and tugged on the tee-shirt underneath.

Charlotte knew perfectly well what the male body looked like; she’d dealt with hundreds both alive and dead; nevertheless seeing Charles’ torso for the first time left her a little breathless. Broad and pale, freckled, with a light field of copper curls like a shield across his chest. She pushed aside his dog tags and ran her hand over it, marveling at how warm and sturdy it was while he gave a rumbling sigh at her touch.

“Wow,” she murmured. “All this muscle you’ve been hiding!”

When Charles tried to deny it, she hushed him and undid her own shirt, impatiently pulling it off before her courage failed her. He gave an approving purr at her lacy bra, and she blushed.

“More for show than support,” Charlotte admitted, but gasped when He reached over and slid one of the straps off her shoulder, rolling to kiss her skin. The touch of his warm lips and brush of his cheek against her shoulder sent shivers through her entire frame. She slid her arms around him and when his kisses moved down the slope of her breast, Charlotte felt a strong jolt of lust surge through her.

“Ohhh, yessss,” she managed, her hips rolling now, pressing up against his. Charles gave a groan muffled against her skin in response, lifting his head enough to shoot her a good-natured look of exasperation.  
“Keep that up and matters are not going to last very long,” he warned her in a slightly strangled tone. “I may be patient but I’m far from _saintly_ , Beloved.”

“More,” Charlotte pleaded in a gentle voice. “It feels so good.”

He kissed her throat and she cradled his head, the rush of pleasure almost more than she could stand as his bare skin pressed against hers. Charlotte moaned again, hands sliding down and around his shoulders, pulling his big body down on hers.

Their kisses deepened, intensified, and Charlotte lost track of time along with her bra. She thought she would lose her mind when Charles finally dragged his mouth down her chin to her breasts. The minute he pressed his lips around one aching nipple she cried out, rocking against him as the spike of pleasure raced between her hips, flaring there, leaving her trembling and breathless.

“Charlotte, dearest . . .” Charles rumbled, looking tousled and slightly terrified, “Dear God, are you . . . all right?”

She took a breath and chuckled, looking up at him even as her eyes filled up. “Oh yes,” she assured him with a little smile. “I, ah . . . came.”

Charles blinked, and Charlotte had to laugh at the astonished look on his face. She slid her hands around his broad bare back, raking it gently and pulling him back down to her, shifting so he lay between her trousered thighs. The shift was enough to bring the heavy ridge of his erection against her and she hissed a little, feeling a few delicious after-shudders.

Charles growled, his hips rocking. “Oh Gohhd . . .”

She clung to him, kissing his neck and face, enjoying the power and heat of his thrusts, her body wrapping around his tightly. When he muffled his howl against her shoulder, Charlotte blinked away the sudden flush of tears, aware more than ever of how much the man in her arms meant to her.

_Mio Dio, Io amo . . ._

Afterwards, Charlotte giggled at his expression as Charles pushed himself up and off her. His look of mortification mixed with tenderness was enough to make her reach up and tickle him. After that whatever self-consciousness he had vanished for the moment as he rolled to his back and pulled her over him.

“Here we are, half naked and sticky with bodily fluids that we need to go and clean off shortly, and frankly I’ve never been happier,” Charles rumbled, brushing his fingers along her hair. “This is a situation I never thought I’d find myself in.”

“Which part?”

“All of it, frankly,” Charles assured her, “but most particularly the happiness.” 

She believed him. The look in his eyes said so much more than his words did at the moment, as did the gentle way his hands stroked her spine.

“Me too, although you’re right about the washing,” Charlotte sighed. “And thank you for letting me . . . seduce you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” he smiled.


	15. Chapter 15

The seating at the Kabuki-za was nearly full, and Charles felt self-conscious for a number of reasons including his height and nationality, but Charlotte held his hand and chattered softly with him before the show as she admired the stage. He agreed with her on its beauty, his thoughts still elsewhere for the most part despite his murmurs.

Elated. Charles tried to hide the sensation but with every glance at the woman beside him he felt it glow within him. So dear, so sensual . . . he basked in simple joy. Oh he’d worried they might not be physically compatible; worried that he’d offend or disappoint her but all those fears had vanished the moment Charlotte had touched his chest so lovingly.

He was still adamant about not crossing the line into full consummation; as he’d told Charlotte, ‘until you have a ring on your finger that particular pleasure must be postponed.’” She’d agreed, shyly whispering her love to him as they basked together before rising and showering separately at her insistence. “You are far too tempting, and we have an entire night ahead of us to indulge ourselves,” Charlotte had assured him sweetly.

So here they were at a performance of _Yoshitsune Senbon Zakura_ and Charles was fascinated. Clearly the female lead and her entourage were stopping at a tea house, and there seemed to be some misunderstanding involving a scruffier character . . . as he glanced over it amused Charles to note that Charlotte was as focused as he was on the play.

“The soldier thinks the boy stole something,” she whispered. “Oh, oh! They’re going to _fight_!”

She took his hand and held it for the rest of the show, the two of them enthralled.

Afterwards, she chattered as they stepped out into the chill of the afternoon. Charles slipped his arm around Charlotte’s waist, the two of them strolling along the sidewalk. “I hardly think that becoming a monk would be the answer to all world problems, though it’s certainly effective in drama,” he told her.

“Well true, but the gesture was right. And did you see that embroidery? I’d go _blind_ trying to work with stitching in silks that fine,” Charlotte replied. “Next time we should sit closer because I’d love to see more of the detailing.”

As they walked on, they approached an artist holed up in an alcove off the street; they stopped to watch. He was working in black ink wash, quickly painting a small still life of a garden fountain, his thin brush creating the impression of reeds and mounds of moss along the edges. Charlotte leaned closer. 

When the artist noticed her, he started; a small blob spotted on what was the lip of the fountain, and he gave a groan of anger. 

Charlotte apologized. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you!” She gestured to herself and then to the brush; at first Charles wasn’t sure if the artist would understand, but she gestured again, more emphatically and with a helpless look the artist reluctantly handed over the little brush. 

He watched as Charlotte rolled the bristles on the ink stone, the move smooth and confident. “All right, let’s see what we can do. You’ve got a lot of good work here and I don’t want you to lose it . . .” She moved shoulder to shoulder to the artist and hummed in a low tone as she created a long curve against the top of the blob, and then flicked little spots on the underside of it. A few more strokes added here and there, and within half a minute what had been a blob was now a delicate frog resting on the stone rim. “There, he looks about right.”

Startled, the artist murmured something, nodding with approval. Charlotte dipped the brush again, and moved to a spot up and to the left, into a space above the fountain. With long sure flicks of paint on the wet paper, she created a pair of tiny yet elegant dragonflies. When the second one was done, she caught herself, and turned to the artist, shyly handing him back the brush. Charles watched them look at each other, mutual respect passing between them despite the language barrier.

“Mastaatisuto-sama,” the man murmured, and gave a deep bow. “Domo arigato.” Charlotte bowed back and looked at Charles, her eyes bright.

“Sorry, sorry . . . I just . . . got carried away.”

Charles gave a delighted chuckle and fished in his pocket for the yen notes there, but when he pulled them out the artist shook his head and handed over the painting, bowing again, this time smiling as he did so.

“I think you’ve made an impression,” Charles murmured, letting Charlotte carefully carry the still damp painting. “And not only on him; that was brilliant.”

“Practice,” Charlotte replied but her tone was pleased. “Watercolor work is close to ink wash. I’d give this to you for Christmas but you’ve already seen it and I have something else planned.”

“As do I, but I think we should keep this as a souvenir of our trip,” Charles murmured, deeply moved. He’d known Charlotte was an artist but to see her at work brought it home. “Maybe this is where your future lies.”

“Maybe,” she countered, and seemed to give it some thought as they made their way back to the base to dress for dinner.

The Tokyo Grill had come highly recommended and Charles appreciated the opportunity to enjoy a dinner that didn’t contain a single reconstituted item in it. He divided his time between studying the menu and studying Charlotte, equally hungry for both. She wore a dress, and heels, which he considered icing on an already delectable cake, although given her size, perhaps a petit four was a better description.

“Is it the dress?” she murmured. “It’s been a while since I wore one and it feels strange.”

“It _is_ the dress and it’s lovely,” Charles told her. “For the first time in ages I feel like a civilian again. As if there is a future beyond this infernal war.”

“Me too,” Charlotte agreed. “A suit suits you, by the way.”

They ordered and ate, talking again about the kabuki play and about possibly shopping tomorrow and through it all Charles found himself smiling again and again at the woman across from him.

Later, by the light of a single bedside lamp he smiled again, pressing kisses down Charlotte’s bare stomach, his lips moving to brush against the delicate thatch of curls between her thighs. He hadn’t much experience with orality but being able to act out one of his favorite fantasies involving Charlotte had him both aroused and thrilled. The warm sweet scent of her skin combined with the light salt of her musk left him painfully erect, and when she slid one stocking-clad leg over his shoulder Charles had to bit his lower lip to keep from losing control altogether.

She was, he decided, a delicious instrument, moaning and gasping under the teasing strokes of his tongue, singing out her pleasure again and again until with a little whimper Charlotte weakly reached down to cup his cheek and make him stop. “I c-can’t take it anymore,” she gasped, smiling. “S’amazing, but I’m just _limp_ now, darling!”

He certainly wasn’t, but by wrapping her hands around his turgid shaft, Charles showed her exactly how to stroke him, and when she wriggled to press kisses to the slick heavy knob, Charles felt the sweet surge of his climax rocket through him, splattering them both. At any other time the resulting mess might have been mortifying, but Charlotte laughed in delight, and went for a damp washcloth to clean up both of them.

When they were curled together on his bed, he spoke softly to Charlotte as she lay half-draped on him like a contented kitten. “Never in my life did I think I would find someone like you and to have it happen here and now . . . .”

“I feel the same way,” came her murmur. “I can’t believe how happy I am.”

“We have,” Charles sighed, “a future. Tell me; do you want children?”

“Mmmm, in due time, yes,” Charlotte agreed. “But not right away. I’d like to figure our lives out first before we turn to that. We still have a lot to work through.”

“Sensible,” Charles brushed his lips against her forehead. “I suppose you’ll want them brought up Catholic?”

“Well it’s my faith, but that’s only a requirement if we have a Catholic wedding,” she pointed out. “If we were married in another church it wouldn’t be.”

“A negotiable point. Fair enough. I’m being terribly presumptive of course, but will you do the honor of marrying me?”

She giggled, and tipped her head up to kiss the underside of his chin. “Charles Emerson Winchester, I’d be _delighted_ to.”

“Excellent. I think this calls for ring shopping tomorrow,” he told her. “At the very least we’ll find a place-holder if nothing else.”

“Do you want one too? Charlotte asked, propping herself up to look him in the eyes. 

It was on the tip of his tongue to decline; as a surgeon he’d be forever taking it off, but Charles hesitated and then nodded. “I would, very much. I’ve never had . . . a ring.”

Charlotte gave him a brilliant smile and an equally brilliant kiss, breaking it off to tell him, “you will _now_ , with my love.”


	16. Chapter 16

Two things very nearly ruined Christmas for Charlotte. The first was a flurry of letters from her brother, father, and Ernesto, all filled with various levels of accusation and anger in reaction to the photos she’d sent. At first she felt some sorrow but within minutes it had turned to annoyed anger that Kellye shared.

“The nerve of them,” she grumbled with Charlotte. “Here you are in a war zone, doing _your_ bit for your country and they think they have a right to tell you what to do with your life?”

“I know,” Charlotte growled herself. “It’s infuriating.” And it was, particularly in light of matters as they stood. She and Charles were officially affianced now. She twisted the little jade and silver band on her finger, finding comfort in the action. They’d found it at the very last shop they’d visited right on the way back to the main base, and Charles had bought it for her without a second’s hesitation once she’d admitted she liked it.

He tended to be decisive that way, she knew. For her part, Charlotte was disappointed she hadn’t found a ring for him as well, but he assured her there was plenty of time for that, along with the opportunity to upgrade hers as well.

“I’m far happier seeing a ring on _your_ finger than on mine at the moment,” Charles had told her as they caught the flight from Tokyo to Seoul. “And pretty as it is, it’s simply a promise of better things to come.”

She’d protested but Charles had pointed out that his mother would probably be pressing family heirlooms on her once they returned stateside. “She can be remarkably persuasive,” he’d reminded her, “and there is far more in the family holdings than Honoria could ever use or want. Trust me; my mother will be _delighted_.”

“I’m _not_ a gold digger,” Charlotte had pointed out a little petulantly.

“Indeed not,” he had agreed, shooting her a tender look. “You _yourself_ are the treasure.”

She blushed even now at his words, but the fact remained that Charlotte knew that as an engaged woman she would be going back to a chilly reception in San Francisco once the war was over.

The second factor that dampened the holiday was the fact that Charles was immediately sent TDY to the 8066th, which was down two surgeons. Saying goodbye the day after they’d returned from leave had them both unhappy, but she’d seen him off, reminding him that it was temporary and that he’d be back soon.

“Come hell or high water,” Charles told her with a grumble as the jeep waited behind him. “I shall return, and I _won’t_ need sunglasses or a corncob pipe to do it.”

“You’d _better_ or I’ll have to hunt you down,” Charlotte replied bravely. “Back by Christmas, _capisce_?”

“ _Capisco,_ ” he rumbled back, smirking at her surprise. Quickly he kissed her, ignoring the cat calls from passing personnel and the jeep rolled out of the compound as Charlotte watched, biting her lips and waiting until it was out of sight.

That had been nearly ten days ago, and Christmas was tomorrow.

Fretfully Charlotte made her way to the morgue and finished up another collation of paperwork. There were three bodies ready to be picked up, and Charlotte said prayers for them, her heart a little heavier knowing how sad this Christmas would be for those families. 

As she finished, Tucker popped in, waiting respectfully until she was done to tell her that Digger had arrived. He and Henderson loaded them up after Charlotte signed the paperwork, and when they came back, she handed them each presents. Shyly they opened the identical packages to find thick gloves of dark red wool.

“Poifect!” Tucker rumbled. “Thank you Lootenant!”

“Ah yes, thanks, Ma’am!” Henderson beamed, pulling his pair on immediately. “Finally, warm fingers!” He looked stricken. “But we didn’t get _you_ anything!”

“You don’t have to; I saw these in Tokyo and figured they’d be good for my best staff,” she assured them, lightly hugging each man in turn. “You go and get warm, all right? I’m going to lock up here.”

They nodded, lumbering out, talking quietly as they did so, and Charlotte watched them go, feeling a surge of affection. Unlike so many others at the 4077th, both men had been happy to work with her right from the start and she appreciated them for it. 

She checked her watch and hurried, closing up the building before making her way to Father Mulcahy’s tent just as the camp lights came on at twilight, feeling the stillness in the air that meant snow was on the way. He answered her knock with a smile. “Ready?”

Charlotte nodded. She and Father Mulcahy were heading to the orphanage with food baskets and homemade presents of knitted socks, hats and mittens. Klinger was going too, decked out in a makeshift Santa costume complete with cotton-ball beard.

“In the time it took me to glue this thing together I could have grown my own,” he told Charlotte with a grin. 

“True, if the Army would let you,” she smiled. “One thing the Navy has over us.”

“Beards,” Klinger sighed, “We’d sure look different with ‘em.”

“Like apostles,” Father Mulcahy offered with a twinkle in his eye.

“Hardly,” Charlotte giggled. “Hawkeye would look more like some raving desert prophet, and BJ would be . . . a beatnik.”

“Colonel Potter would look like a Confederate General,” Klinger offered, grinning himself. “And as for the major, well, he’d look like a professor. An egghead professor.”

“Now now . . . let’s be thankful the Army has sensible grooming regulations, shall we?” Father Mulcahy murmured and Charlotte agreed, although the thought of Charles with a beard lingered pleasantly in her thoughts as they approached the orphanage. 

The children were delighted with the warm clothing and candy of course, and Charlotte enjoyed watching them unwrap each package. In a lull, she discreetly handed over an envelope heavy with high denomination yuan bills to the head nun. “From one who wishes to remain anonymous,” she murmured, delighted to do this for Charles. He’d told her about his faux pas with the chocolates the year before.

“My time in Korea has sharpened my understanding of what true compassion is,” he had admitted softly to her. “And though I’m far from perfect when it comes to humility, I’ve gotten some very quick lessons.”

Then there were mugs of tea and singing carols as the Father accompanied them on the rickety piano. Charlotte enjoyed it all and was sorry when it was time to head back to the camp. Klinger drove, tossing his mauled beard back to Charlotte before he did so.

After returning the jeep to the motor pool and saying goodnight to her companions, Charlotte meandered to her tent, crunching over the crusted snow. She took a moment to look up at the stars, aware of how bright they were against the sky.

“Char . . .” came Kellye’s voice. Startled, Charlotte looked over to see her tent mate coming towards her. “Santa’s here to see you.”  
Charlotte snickered. “Oh really?”

“Yep.” Something in the delighted tone of Kellye’s voice made Charlotte’s pulse jump; she looked to the tent and then back at Kellye.

“Carole is bunking with the other girls and I’m on midnight rotation, so . . . I think you ought to go sit on Santa’s knee,” she murmured, and patted Charlotte’s shoulder as she passed by. “Have fun!”

Hope as light as a bubble rose in Charlotte’s heart and she skittered her way to the tent door, tugging it open to find Charles sitting on one of the cots. He rose at the sight of her, pulling her into his arms. 

“Chaaaarlotte,” he sighed in delight.

She squeezed him, savoring the clean scent that was uniquely him. “Orso mio,” Charlotte murmured, blinking away quick tears. “How?”

“Proximity. The 4077th is now the closest unit to the front lines, so it was common sense to return me. You’re freezing.”

“Well warm me up,” she giggled, burrowing closer and standing on tiptoe to kiss his throat. “We have the tent for tonight, you know.”

“I do,” he replied, giving her a sweet look tinged with mischief. “But first, presents.”


	17. Chapter 17

Scattered on her bunk were several packages wrapped in colorful magazine pages and decorated with gauze bows; Charlotte squealed with delight and looked again to Charles, who smiled. “I can’t imagine _how_ those got there,” he murmured, amused at her response.

“ _I_ can . . . and I think there are some others around here . . .” she fished out three items wrapped in tinfoil with little Christmas designs painted on them, handing them to Charles. “Two can play at gift-giving,” she teased.

“You are a woman of amazing resourcefulness,” he murmured fondly. “All right, then . . .” By folding a spare cot in half and bracing the raised part against the central post of the tent, Charles created a lounge chair and beckoned Charlotte to curl up with him on it. He handed her one of the presents. “This arrived before we left for Tokyo; it’s from Honoria.”

Charlotte undid the ties on the box and pulled out a light silk scarf with a print of daisies on a green background. She gasped, running her fingers along it. “Ohhhh Charles! It’s too much,” Charlotte shook her head. “Really.”

“Nonsense. Honoria would be _dreadfully_ hurt if you sent it back and it looks lovely on you,” he murmured. “Truly.”

He watched her bite her lip and stroked the scarf again. “Thank you.” Setting it aside, she handed him a box. “All right, this is for you. I had to call in a few favors with certain people here to get it, but I feel it was worth the time.”

Charles examined the package a moment before undoing the foil wrap, pulling out a thick leather portfolio. He blinked at it. “Staedler’s Selected Solos for French Horn? Oh Charlotte! I’ve been looking ages for a copy of this! How? _How_ did you manage it?” Stunned, he ran a hand over the top flap as if to verify through touch that the case was real.

“I have my ways, Major, I have my ways,” Charlotte wriggled, pleased. “Like it?”

He drew in a deep breath. “Yes. I am _deeply_ touched by this, my dear.” And he was, Charles realized. Although he was and always would be only moderately good at playing, the fact that Charlotte loved him enough to find this collection warmed his soul. “Thank you so very much.” He squeezed the arm around her in a quick hug.

“I’m so glad you made it back,” she whispered, nuzzling his cheek. “I can’t believe how much I missed you.”

“And I you,” Charles agreed. “Absence does make the heart grow fonder in our cases.” He gestured to another package and reluctantly let her get up to fetch it, feeling better when she settled against him once more.

“From?”

“Me,” he assured her.

Intrigued, Charlotte undid the paper, chuckling over the bright ads on the magazine page and lifted out a lovely ecru lace shawl with matching gloves, delicate and sweet. Charles saw her blink rapidly and felt her take a deep breath.

“It’s Limerick lace,” he rumbled quietly. “Father Mulcahy helped me find it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte sighed, “utterly beautiful. I will _cherish_ it, Charles.” Her tone assured him that the gift would be, too.

After carefully setting it aside, Charlotte brought him a smaller box, gesturing for him to open it. When he did, Charles found an elegant enamel tie pin of a Kabuki mask, cunningly done in white and red. He smiled, holding it up. “It may be a while until I can wear this but I will be proud to do so for the memories.”

“I would have gotten you the cufflinks as well but I wasn’t sure if you used those or preferred buttons,” Charlotte shrugged.

“Buttons for daywear. French cuffs are for more formal occasions.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she nodded, and then handed him a long flat package. He shot her a curious look.

“I already opened mine; it’s your turn.”

“I’m too impatient,” Charlotte informed him. “Something I’m sure you’re aware of. This is for you and I hope, _hope_ you like it.”

He heard the uncertainty in her voice and it was on the tip of his tongue to reassure her, but instead, Charles caught her chin and lifted her face to look into her eyes. “This is already the happiest Christmas I have had in years, beloved, and the gifts are merely the icing on it. You are here, I love you and we have a future.”

She nodded shyly, and gestured to the package.

For a moment he thought it was the painting from their trip to Tokyo—the shape was right—but as he peeled off the foil Charles realized it was a different piece of art, and when the last bit was off her studied it, feeling a rush in his chest.

The two of them. He remembered the photo, but this was larger, and in softer colors and outlines. Charlotte had caught her own delighted expression and his patient loving gaze and had put them into pastels onto the page, framing their tête à tête more perfectly than the lens had.

Not only was the work exquisite, Charles thought, but intimately accurate. This was indeed the moment he’d realized he loved her; the moment when she was all that filled his vision and heart. He shuddered, moved beyond words, feeling his eyes fill up.

Carefully he set the picture down and pulled Charlotte closer, brushing his face against her cheek, letting his tears mingle with hers, he realized. She clung to him just tightly. She kissed him. 

Charles cupped her face and kissed her back, putting all the love he could into it. When he pulled back to breathe, she was wet-faced and smiling, her hazel eyes bright. “You like it,” she sighed.

“Yes,” he told her hoarsely. “It is . . . a masterpiece.”

“No--”

“Yes. It is the very _heart_ of us, Charlotte my love. We shall frame it and hang it in our bedroom to remind us every day of how lucky we are to have . . . to have found each other.”

She nodded, wiping her eyes with her fingers and giggling softly. “I did it the day I got the photos—I just HAD to! I wanted more than just a copy of it; I wanted to re-create it with more . . . love, more of us to it. I tried, anyway.”

“You succeeded,” Charles let his lips graze her temple. “Magnificently.”

The rest of her presents were small delights: chocolate and ground coffee from his mother, a bundle of high-end art supply charcoal pencils and a bottle of Bristol cream Sherry for them to share.

For his part, Charles was delighted to receive fresh razor blades (“Again, we’re talking a good deal of wheeling and dealing my love,”) three new mystery novels, and five linen handkerchiefs elegantly monogrammed by his sister.

“Quite the largess,” he chuckled. “I’m blessed this year.”

“As am I, but it’s getting late,” Charlotte pointed out, stifling a yawn. “And given that we could be called to work at any moment . . .”

“Bed,” Charles agreed.

It was snug and the thin mattress under them had less give than the beds in Tokyo but Charles managed to curl around Charlotte on the cot, feeling warm in every sense of the word.

“So . . . I have a ring on my finger . . .”Charlotte murmured, wriggling back against him. 

“So you do,” Charles breathed into her ear, aroused and amused at her eagerness. “Although this is hardly . . . well, the most romantic of settings.” He slipped an arm around her waist and found his hand sliding under her pajama top to cup her breast in his palm.

“It’s as good as we are going to _get_ for the moment, and I want to take advantage of that . . . and you, if you’ll have me,” Charlotte whispered over her shoulder to him.

“Charlotte,” Charles sighed, moving to kiss the back of her neck. “I love you.” 

They managed to slip free of most of their clothing and in the semi-darkness there was time for lingering kisses and soft reassurances. Charles had begun carrying a condom since returning from Tokyo out of pragmatism that seemed to be paying off at the moment. The process of putting it on could have been awkward but Charlotte helped, kissing and smothering little giggles against his shoulder.

“ _Stop_ that,” he told her with mock-seriousness as he tossed the foil wrapper toward the little bedside table. “You’re not taking this at _all_ seriously.”

“I will be in a moment—Good lord, darling, you’re big.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “I’m in proportion.”

“And soon you’ll be in _me_ ,” Charlotte chuffed, wriggling against his hip, her fingers curling around his heavy shaft. “I sound awful, don’t I?”

“Shhhh,” Charles stretched out again on his side and pulled her closer, tugging one of Charlotte’s legs over his hip. “Slowly. I want you very much but if anything _hurts_ we’ll stop, understand?”

She gave a little sound of agreement and he felt her leg tighten, drawing him closer. Charles kissed her, letting one hand slide down her spine to cup her bottom.

Charlotte reached down and guided him; the moment he felt the head of his erection slide in, he groaned, trying to smother the sound against the tender spot between her neck and shoulder as he fought for control. She was slick and hot; maddeningly so. When Charlotte rocked her hips, more of him pushed in, and she gave a hungry purr that sent waves of heat through his hips.

“Moorrre,” she hissed, sliding her hand to his hip and pulling him, “Please, yes, moorrre!”

“Yes,” was the last thing he said as he rolled forward, pushing deeply between her thighs. Charlotte groaned and within minutes they both found a rhythm rocking together on the cot, making it creak softly. Charles fought the unbelievable bliss within him and worked a hand between their bodies. As he kissed her, he lightly pinched one of her nipples, making her shudder with pleasure. Charlotte gave a sweet little gasp and began to grind against him in a way that made Charles thrust harder and deeper.

“Ch-Ch-charlotte . . .” he muffled her name against her damp shoulder, feeling pulse after pulse of pleasure surge through him. She tensed, clutching him tightly, her breath ragged in his ear.

“Oh God in heaven, yes that was . . . .” she shook, tears starting up as she continued to cling to him. “Oh beloved, oh . . . . I didn’t know it would be _so_ . . .”

Charles nuzzled her wet face, planting little kisses across her forehead and down her cheeks, coming to her mouth and sharing a deep sigh with her as Charlotte began to relax. “I didn’t know _either_ ,” he rumbled, “and now that I do, I want it, Charlotte. All of it. You from tonight on.”

She nodded.

Later, after he’d disposed of the condom and stretched out again on the cot with Charlotte over him, they dropped over, tangled up with each other and ready for sleep.

“If this is how babies are made,” Charlotte yawned, “I think we’re going to need at _least_ a two-story house.”

“At this rate, a lighthouse,” Charles snickered, and tightened his arms around her as she chuckled.


	18. Chapter 18

Charlotte stared at the letter, feeling sick. The numbers that should have been there weren’t and the polite note underneath requested she make a deposit as soon as possible to rectify the situation. 

Even as she read over the overdrawn notice a second time, she found her hand shaking and she couldn’t tell if it was fury or fear. Sucking in a deep breath, she growled, “Oh papà, why? Why are doing this? If you needed the money all you had to do was ask . . .” Even as the words left her lips, though, another darker thought occurred to her.

_Fuck._

She’d only been able to open the account by having her father co-sign, but there were _two_ Francisco Columbes living at 1255 Water Street, San Francisco and Charlotte had visions of her brother striding into the Wells Fargo on Montgomery Street and flashing his driver’s license at the tellers.

She felt like throwing up. All her paychecks, carefully endorsed, sent off in the mail pouches like clockwork . . . all gone, according to this note. _We regret to inform you that your account is overdrawn and suspended until such time as we receive funds to cover the accrued bank fees,_ the note said.

Charlotte let it drop from her fingers. Her next check would be issued in two days’ time, and while it would have more than enough to cover the fees, the thought of Franco snatching up the rest . . . .

Her fury went from hot to cold, and she shivered, thinking hard of her options. Saving the checks was pointless; after six months the government didn’t have to honor them, and Charlotte had no intention of losing any more money. Opening an account in Korea seemed ridiculous, even if the Army had options for it . . . 

Charles. Even as she thought of him, Charlotte felt a sense of relief. She could sign them over to him . . . but she hesitated. The humiliation of her situation stung, as did that loss of freedom. She’d loved having control of her own money; it was one of the true blessings of joining the army. The chance to build up some savings so she could deal with whatever she was going back to in the states.

Now the tears threatened, and she impatiently blinked, refusing to let them fall. Her pride would have to take the blow, Charlotte decided grimly, and damn her brother for stooping to this vindictive move. Grabbing the letter again, Charlotte left her tent.  
Charles was in his, working his way through one of his Christmas novels while Hawkeye and BJ were sharing a box of what looked like homemade candy.

“It’s caramel. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s caramel,” BJ was murmuring through a mouthful as Charlotte knocked.

“Come in, come in,” Charles called to her cheerfully as he sat up.  
Hawkeye thrust the box at her. “Caramel, or toffee?” he demanded. “There’s twenty bucks riding on it.”

Startled, Charlotte picked out a piece, closed her eyes and sniffed it before popping the square in her mouth. “Chewy,” she announced after working her jaws a bit and swallowing.

“Very,” BJ murmured through a mouthful.

“Caramel then. Toffee’s brittle.”

She fought a giggle as Hawkeye sullenly handed over the money to BJ. “Next time have your nearest and dearest label her care package contents.”

“If it earns me your filthy lucre, not a chance,” BJ told him with a grin. “But I’ll let her know you ate half the box.”

Charlotte looked to Charles, who was sighing. “Never mind the candy; you look perturbed, Dearest.”

She looked at all three of them and before she could stop herself, Charlotte held out the letter. “I am perturbed. It looks like my brother has pulled an old Mother Hubbard on me.”

BJ and Hawkeye came over to stare at the page.

“Dear Miss Colombe . . . regret to inform . . . overdrawn . . . wait, how _could_ you be?” BJ muttered, “You’re here with nothing to spend money on anyway.” 

Hawkeye shot her a sharp look. “While you’ve been depositing all this time, he’s been withdrawing? What’s your brother’s name, _Scrooge_?”

Charles cursed. This was so startling that all three of them looked at him as he rose off his cot and lumbered over, taking the letter from BJ’s hand.

“Of all the vile, underhanded acts of petty revenge this takes the cake!” he growled. “How much has he stolen from you, Charlotte?”

His fury made her want to take a step back, but she murmured an amount, alarmed at how all three men shared grim looks.

“That’s grand larceny. First thing you need to do is close the account,” BJ advised. “Pronto. No point in giving your brother anything else to pilfer.”

“And while you’re at it, notify the bank that you’ve been swindled,” Hawkeye scowled. “Big-time.”

“I agree with my colleagues whole-heartedly,” Charles told her, his expression still flinty. “You _do_ realize this also means the police will have to intervene as well since this is a criminal act.”

Charlotte swallowed. “Yes,” she murmured. “Damn it. And for the duration I won’t have any secure way to handle my future earnings unless . . .”

“Ohhhh,” Hawkeye looked at Charles, “I can see where this is going.”

“It’s the only thing I could think of!” Charlotte gave him a pleading look. “At least for right now.”

“Yes and it’s brilliant,” Charles nodded. “I’ll notify our family lawyer Hastings and set matters up right away. We’ll create a secure savings account for you under the umbrella of mine. Do you have access to your personal documentation?”

“Most of it,” Charlotte shrugged, feeling awkward. “But I hate . . . being beholden to you.”

He looked sweetly at her, and then shot a quick glare to his tent mates who were shamelessly listening in.

“Don’t mind us,” Hawkeye murmured. “We’re just eating toffee.”

“Caramels,” BJ corrected him. “And wondering when we get to the good stuff, like plotting revenge against your future brother-in-law.”

Charles gave a nod and turned his attention back to Charlotte. “First, Beloved, we are _affianced_ , a state where mutual support is the loving norm. I respect your desire for financial autonomy, however, and consider your money your own-- the new account will reflect that. Secondly, Hunnicutt here makes a good point in that your brother needs to be arrested if not for grand larceny then at the very least for malicious intent and bank fraud.”

Charlotte gave a sigh and hugged him. “Thank you. I’m at a loss here to explain it. While I assume it’s Franco being vindictive, there could be other reasons the money is gone—maybe a pipe broke at the funeral parlor, or my papà wrecked the hearse—I just don’t know at this point and if it was legitimate . . . ."

“Hold it _right_ there,” Hawkeye held up a hand. “Even if there was a legitimate need, you should have, would have gotten a letter or telegram about it by now. If the bank’s note is here before any missive explaining the missing funds then that’s as fishy as old bait in my book.”

“He’s right, Charlotte,” Charles agreed. “That large a withdrawal requires some explanation and the fact that none has been forthcoming is highly suspicious.”

“First things first: you’ll want to pay those fees so your credit rating doesn’t take too much of a hit, and then close the account,” BJ advised. “I can wire Peg to drive into the city and do it if we get her a notarized letter of authorization. Payday is . . . ?”

“--Friday, two days from now,” Hawkeye jumped in. “Better yet, pay the fees _but keep the account open_.”

They all looked at him and Charlotte saw Charles smile.

“Cunning,” he murmured. “Your capacity for it could serve us very well here, Pierce. It’s a clever move.”

“I’m guessing my brother knows when my paycheck comes in,” Charlotte spoke aloud, “and so when Franco goes in and sees there isn’t any money . . . but that the fees have been paid . . . .”

“He’ll get the message that you know he’s ripped you off,” Hawkeye beamed. “And you won’t have to say a word.”

She smiled herself. “That’s downright Sicilian of you, Doctor Pierce,” Charlotte snickered. “Mia piace.”

“Hawkeye,” he replied with a smirk. “Now if only we could get some large associate named, say, Guido to show up at your funeral parlor to explain a few things to your brother . . .”

“Leo, actually,” she murmured lightly, and glanced at Charles. “Sal’s big brother, very . . . in _tune_ with the North Shore. Lord help me, I if asked him he’d do it, too.”

“Now I’m officially _scared_ of you,” BJ murmured, but he grinned as he said it. 

Charles chuckled. “Perhaps we should keep the elder Molinari as insurance, but in the meantime we all have paperwork if we want to make the last mail pouch going out on Friday.” 

He steered her out and to Potter’s office, keeping one arm around her the entire time.

“We’ll sort it out, I promise you,” Charles murmured to her comfortingly.

Charlotte told the colonel everything and his expression grew flintier as the story came out. By the time she was done Potter had barked out a series of orders to Radar to get in touch with the pay warrant officer in Seoul as well as the bank manager or the Wells Fargo on Montgomery Street, and gave Charles permission to call Boston as well.

“ _Nobody_ gets away with that sort of nonsense when I’m in charge!” Potter growled. “Theft from a _soldier_ —especially one on the front line- is something I will not tolerate!”

“Yes sir,” Charlotte murmured, close to tears now as the reality of the situation started to set in. She leaned against Charles, grateful for his solid form, and he tightened his arm around her.

“Sir, the lieutenant has been through a great deal this afternoon, and I won’t be able to call stateside until six this evening. With your permission I’d like to see her back to her quarters.”

“You do that, Major,” Potter agreed, sighing. “Lieutenant I’m sorry about what’s happened and we’ll do what we can to set things right. Dismissed.”


	19. Chapter 19

It took a few days for her to return to her normally sunny self, but Charles waited, well-aware that Charlotte was dealing with a bewildering onslaught of conflicting emotions, and that the most he could do to help her for the moment was to be patient and supportive. Father Mulcahy also made it a point to talk regularly with Charlotte as well.

In the meantime Charles drafted letters.

_Hastings,_

__

Please forgive the abrupt nature of this missive; given the urgency of the matter I hope you will understand and not hold my seeming rudeness against me. As you may or may not know, I have recently become engaged. My intended, Miss Charlotte Colombe, is all I could wish for in a potential wife and I am looking forward to a long and happy life with her once this war is over. She is a lieutenant, and currently earns her own salary commensurate with that rank, therefore she and I wish to open an account for her future earnings in an association with mine. Not a joint account, but one under her own name. Should that not be possible, then a joint account in which I will be the figurehead only.  
I realize this arrangement is somewhat unorthodox, but she needs to have the rest of her salary protected. You will probably be contacted by both Wells Fargo and the Bank Fraud division of the San Francisco Police Department soon; I would deeply appreciate it if you would co-operate fully with them. I am enclosing the particulars of her personal information and previous account.  
With deep gratitude, 

Charles E. Winchester III 

_Father,_

__

_I have written to Hastings to start the financial paperwork necessary in changing my marital status in the near future. I realize that will also include re-writing my will and adding Charlotte as beneficiary to my holdings, insurance policies, and property deeds. I hope these actions come as no surprise, and that I have your blessing in these matters. Undoubtedly Mother has made you aware of my matrimonial intentions; you however, are the first to see them in action as it were._

__

__

_Suffice to say I am happy, and looking forward to introducing you to your future daughter-in-law._

__

__

_Your son,_

__

__

_Charle_

__

__

_Dear Honoria,_

__

__

_The answer to your question in your last letter is yes. My tent mates assure me that I have become intolerably pleasant to them, and are making bets on when it shall end, but I doubt they can do much to break my spirits at this point. I’ve asked Charlotte to marry me and she’s said yes—little else could make me happier where I am. She is not only a good fit for my temperament but also sweet and patient and yet capable of keeping me from letting my faults get out of hand._

__

__

_Lest you fear your future sister-in-law is perfect I will tell you that she tends to rise at an _ungodly_ hour and enjoys it; she has no interest in card games of any sort and is prone to draw on all stray or unguarded piece of paper so if you value your first drafts, lock them up! _

__

__

_Exhibit A: the opposite side of this note._

__

__

_And I do NOT look like the panda there, although the small cat next to it does resemble Charlotte remarkably well. I’ve urged her to write to you and hope you will return the favor so that the pair of you can get to know each other better.  
Affectionately, _

__

__

_Charles_

__

__

_Ps: You do have your own financial account do you not, ‘Noria? If not, let me know and I will facilitate one for you. After this week I’ve become aware of the prudence in such an arrangement. C._

Apparently Hunnicutt’s wife did go into San Francisco and pay the account fees; Charlotte insisted on paying him back in full and included a lovely pastel drawing of teddy bears, making it difficult for the man not to smile and accept on behalf of his daughter, Charles noted. 

And when a pair of letters finally came, Charlotte told him she hadn’t opened them yet. “I’m not afraid, but I don’t want to be by myself when I do,” she warned Charles. “You’ve shown me that we’re in this together, so I’m taking you at your word.” 

“We are,” he assured her, dropping a light kiss on her forehead. “Assuredly.” 

But a steady trickle of casualties came in before they could read the notes; not enough to overwhelm the OR but enough to keep everyone on-call for nearly eighteen hours. Charles tried to rest between arrivals but by the time the last of them was in Post-Op his back ached and all he could think of was showering and sleeping. Impatiently he and the other surgeons waited until the nurses were through and scrubbed up in remaining water that barely warm. 

“You’d think the Army would appreciate my suggestion of co-ed showering as a way of conserving hot water?” Pierce had muttered, his fatigue making the joke fall a little flat. Nobody had the energy to answer. 

He wanted to go to sleep but dutifully Charles made his way to Charlotte’s tent. At the door she put a finger to her lips and looked back at her dozing tent mates with regret. “Not here. Can we . . . ?” 

“I’m positive Pierce and Hunnicutt will be dead to the world,” he told her with a tired smile, “and therefore unable to eavesdrop.” 

Charles stretched out in the camp recliner and Charlotte allowed herself to be coaxed onto his lap as she opened the first letter. 

“From Papà,” she murmured as she unfolded a page of elegant Italian script. “He says . . . Dear Charlotte, forgive me my daughter . . . “ she hesitated, and Charles shot her a concerned look. In the lamplight Charlotte looked delicately beautiful, her profile as like a cameo. She spoke again, her voice slightly shaky. “Forgive me my daughter for my foolishness. In all the time you have been gone, I have received my copy of the account statements, carefully watching your deposits build into a . . . it’s hard to translate but colloquially it means nest lining. Sort of a nest egg in English . . .” 

“Yes,” Charles murmured, fighting a yawn. 

“Unfortunately your brother learned of it. He insisted an account with my name on it too should be used to help the parlor. I resisted, knowing it was your money but for two years in a row we have owed taxes, my daughter, and the government would not wait. We have had a few small quakes and one of them put a crack in the wall of the main parlor, which had to be plastered . . . little things here and there, Charlotte. Only small amounts that I intended to repay before you come home.” 

Charlotte shook her head and read on. “But yesterday the bank called, telling me there is no money, and worse, there are penalties. I argued, but they tell me the account is empty, that I took all of it out two weeks before. I tell them no, I haven’t been to the bank but they say they have the signature of Francisco Columbe on record for the withdrawal. 

Oh my daughter! Your brother has invested the money in another building! An expansion of our business, he says. By having a second parlor we can double our income Franco brags. We have talked of it before—dreaming as men do, nothing serious—but he has taken upon himself to DO this without my knowledge or blessing,” Charlotte growled. “Shit.” 

“Then it’s clear: the building is yours since it was bought with your money,” Charles pointed out. “I’m sure the law will see it that way.” 

Charlotte rolled her eyes and settled against his chest, slowly folding the letter and tucking it back in the envelope. “I don’t _want_ to own a funeral parlor, orso mio. A house, yes but after this war I’d rather stay out of the mortuary business. At least for a while. And this complicates things because it’s smart on Franco’s part. This isn’t outright theft for a flashy car or a trip to Las Vegas—it’s an _investment_ , damn him.” 

“I don’t care if he’s bought a clinic for the poor and found the cure for the common cold, beloved—your brother has stolen two and a half years of your wages and used it for his own gain,” Charles rumbled with quiet fury. “And I for one will not let him get away with it, no matter how he tries to justify the deed!” 

“I agree,” Charlotte murmured, “but this does make matters trickier. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.” 

She opened the other letter, and Charles noted her hands trembled. 

__Char,__

____

____

_I wish I could say I’m sorry but I’m not. I saw an opportunity to do what Pop and I have always dreamed of and we took it. I know you’re pissed but I have to think of the family’s future. If you’re so damned determined to marry this doctor of yours then you don’t need that much money anyway, and Pop and I can expand Colombe & Son into something big. Be smart, Char, and just let it go. Pop’s not getting any younger, and he can’t run this place by himself if I’m doing time. _

>

_It would kill him and that would be your fault. So what do you say? Be a good sister, drop the charges and we’ll call it quits. It can be my wedding present to you. F_

_“Fottuo figlio di una cagna!”_ Charlotte hissed, “that _stronzo_!” 

“Si,” Charles agreed, his own sense of anger freshly ignited. “It’s emotional blackmail of the worst kind, and utterly contemptible!”  
Despite the noise, neither of the sleeping surgeons woke, and Charles was grateful for that. 

“He’s blaming Papà, and we know it’s not true!” she growled, “and to steal the money just because it’s there, and that part about not needing it because I’m getting married! Oooooh, I would cheerfully garrote that _porco_ with my bare hands!” 


	20. Chapter 20

When Charles woke, it was to a pair of tent mates standing over him, grinning. The fact that Charlotte was curled up on his chest and still asleep explained Hunnicutt and Pierce’s expressions easily.

He sighed. “Whatever you’ve got to say, can it wait until my fiancée is out of the tent?”

Pierce put a hand to his chest. “Of course; we’re not such boors that we’d ruffle her delicate feathers over something as crass as an impromptu sleepover!”

“ _You_ on the other hand, have given us a heaping amount of fodder for riposte,” Hunnicutt grinned, “you cad.”

Charles said nothing, aware that any comment would be taken as permission to exchange barbs. He gently shook Charlotte, who muzzily woke up. “Mmmmm?”

“Charlotte, we have been . . . somewhat compromised,” Charles murmured to her. 

She blinked and looked up at the two men and promptly stuck her tongue out at them before burrowing against Charles once more.

Pierce laughed. “Well, I guess that showed _us_. Come on Beej; let’s leave before I cry.”

“She’s a fierce one, Charles, be careful!” BJ called back as he and Pierce left the tent. When the door closed, Charlotte gave a sigh.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. So now both our reputations are shot.”

“Hardly,” Charles pointed out. “Not only was our situation innocent, but we also had the two of them here with us all night as well. Nobody in their right _mind_ would believe anything romantic happened under those circumstances. I’m more concerned about what we agreed to do about your brother.”

At that Charlotte tensed and sat up, running a hand through her curls, making them fluff all over her head in an adorable halo. “I’m still up for it. I’ll compose it and bring it over later but right now, I think I’d better get myself back to my own tent.”

“If you must,” Charles kissed her forehead. “Meanwhile I shall do my best to ignore the slings and rubber arrows of my colleagues.”

She chuckled and bent close to his ear. “They’re a little jealous you know. Hunnicutt misses what we have and I don’t think Pierce has had real relationship it in a long time.”

“You may be right,” Charles admitted thoughtfully. “It does put their comments in perspective.”

 

The next few days were quiet, and most of the camp took the time to relax despite the snow and chill, planning for a New Year’s Eve party headed up by the nurses. Charlotte cheerfully let Kellye talk her into cutting out stars and moons from leftover tin foil, and painting a city night skyline on an old bed sheet for a backdrop.

She composed and re-composed the letter several times all while dealing with the incoming paperwork from both Wells Fargo and the First National of Boston, where her new account was now established. Charlotte also received a letter—formal and yet sweetly cordial—from one Jedidiah Hastings congratulating her on her engagement and her new account. That note had been on rich heavy paper, written with a steel-nibbed pen no less, and she marveled at how quietly elegant it was.

Another note came too, and Charlotte was thrilled to open it.

_Dear Charlotte,_

_I hope I’m not too forward in calling you by your first name but honestly I feel as if we’re old friends already. Every note from Charles mentions you and that last one with the drawing made me laugh! You’re very talented and yes, my brother IS more like a panda than he’ll ever know! Thank you for making him so happy; his letters are so much nicer to read these days and I credit you for that._

_I don’t know if my brother has mentioned much about me so I am enclosing a photo. A school one, alas, but it’s all I had at hand. Red hair, blue eyes, medium height and weight. I’m just finishing up school and heading off to college (if I get my say in it.) Also, I stammer. It’s not too bad when I’m with family and friends but when I first meet you I don’t want you to be surprised or shocked by it. I have been working on it for years and it’s better than it used to be. I carry a notepad when I have to travel._

_I’m glad you liked the scarf! Mother and I found it at the Back Bay Bonwit Teller. Normally I loathe shopping, especially when it’s for myself, but when it’s for someone else, that’s my idea of fun! Well that and having lunch afterwards and watching the other diners and people going by._

_So do tell me about yourself? Charles says you are from San Francisco . . . how exciting! What is it like? Do you have brothers and sisters? What artists do you like? Do you have a favorite book? At the moment mine is The Stars Look Down by A. J. Cronin. It’s sad in places but the writing is so moving._

_I have to go—I have a harp lesson in a few minutes—but I look forward to writing to you again and your replies when you have time, Charlotte._

_And thank you again for making my brother happy. He deserves it.  
Fondly,_

_Honoria_

Touched, Charlotte re-read the note several times, smiling as she did so.

***  
The New Year’s Eve party set-up began just after the Mess tent finished up the dinner, and Charlotte helped Kellye, Ginger and Carole pin up the bed sheet as the rest of the nurses did the other decorating. It looked good for an impromptu display, and the lull as everyone hurried off to get dressed, Charlotte wandered down to the creek, determined to enjoy a moment of quiet. The snow was crunchy underfoot and she took care going down the bank, but the lovely sight of the dark water and the long black trees on the opposite bank took her breath away.

“Great minds,” came a murmur from behind her, and smiling, she felt Charles rest a hand on her shoulder. She tipped her head to press a cheek to his hand.

“A little solitude is a great joy. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind working in the morgue,” she replied, earning a chuckle.

“Well said. If you don’t mind some company right now . . .”

“Come here,” Charlotte chuckled and slipped an arm around him, the two of them looking out over view together.

“This may be the _only_ thing I will miss about Korea,” she sighed. “This little spot. It’s special.”

Charles gave a wordless hum of agreement. After a moment he spoke. “Had you not invited me here back in late summer, we might not be where we are now, Beloved, so yes, this is a special place.”

She looked up at him. “You accepted the invitation. That was a big step.”

He laughed. “Bigger than I realized at the time. Come, we have a party to attend but if you like we could return here before midnight.”

“Now THAT was romantic, Major. We have a date.”

 

Charlotte kissed Charles all the way from December 31st, 1952 to January 1st, 1953 without a moment’s hesitation, breaking for a breath and a giggle at the heady aftertaste of sherry they shared. 

They stood entwined under the willow tree until the chill was too much, and slowly made their way back to camp where the party was still in full swing in the Mess Tent. Without a word, they both headed for the Swamp and settled in together on the lounge chair.

“All right, this draft is in English but I’m going to write it in Italian because that way Leo can share it with who I suspect he’s going to share it with,” Charlotte murmured. “It has to be subtle and polite so I’m counting on you to help me with that.”

“Read away,” Charles replied, savoring the comfort of her warmth against his left side.

“Dear Leo,” Charlotte began. “I hope you and your family are doing well. I think of you often and intend on paying my respects when I return from Korea. You and your brother have always been dear to me, and now more than ever I appreciate that bond. I miss those easier younger days when I looked forward to your flower deliveries.”

Charles nodded. “Building the nostalgia?”

“It’s necessary,” Charlotte pointed out. “You can’t rush a favor, especially with this. Anyway---“ she began reading again, “I recently received a few letters that have troubled my heart, and not knowing who else to turn to, am writing to you, Leonardo, the head of a household I respect, for advice." 

Franco has often spoken of expanding the parlor. He and Papà used to consider it before I joined the Army. I know it’s a dream dear to my brother’s heart, and one I would have supported if he had asked me. Family is everything—this you and I know. But Franco has put his dream _before_ Papa and me, and in doing so has brought shame on us! Had he but asked me . . . but he did not. Now the bank people are involved and all the money I worked so hard to save while serving our country is gone.”

Charles gave a little growl, and Charlotte snickered. “Dramatic I grant you, but it will definitely have an effect on Leo. Let me get to the end.”

“And so I am asking if you would talk to my brother, have someone reason with him. My papà is not young, Leo, and this heartbreak is difficult on him. You and your family understand sorrow, I know. I grieve with you and I trust you will find it in your heart to help me while I am so far from home." 

With my heart’s gratitude, Carlotta PS If you cannot help, please destroy this note; I will take whatever my brother will do to me to spare my papà.”

“Dear _God_ , do you mean to tell me your brother would BEAT you!?” Charles roared. Alarmed, Charlotte pressed a cool hand to his lips, shushing him.

“No! Well he’s slapped me once or twice, but I’ve held my own,” Charlotte rapidly shot back. “The _point_ is that Leo knows Franco’s temper so it’s not exactly a lie. We fought a lot as kids. Didn’t you and Honoria ever fight?”

Charles gave her a disbelieving look. “No.”

“Never?” Now it was Charlotte’s turn to look skeptical.

“When disagreements arose, we parted company until our tempers cooled,” Charles said quietly. “A far more _civilized_ way to deal with conflict.” 

Charlotte sighed. “Well good for you, but in my case, this little piece of common knowledge may be what does the trick. If it worked on you, I’m fairly sure it will move Leonardo Molinari to pay a visit to my brother.”

Charles nodded, and after Charlotte set the letter aside, he caught her face in his hands, looking intently at her. “Which cheek?”

“What?”

“Which cheek did your brother hit?” Charles demanded, and when Charlotte turned her left one, he tenderly kissed it.

“I will never EVER raise a hand to you Charlotte my love. You are precious and in this moment I detest your brother to a degree I did not think possible. Your father I will respect; your brother, never.”

She looked at him, a single tear sparkling down her face.


	21. Chapter 21

Charlotte sighed, zipping up the black vinyl bag after tucking the mangled leg into it. The other part of Mortuary duty included dealing with severed limbs and although she wasn’t as shocked by them as she had been at the beginning of the war, they still unsettled her. Back at home she and the family rarely had to deal with issues like this: most bodies came from the hospitals or homes without missing parts.

She said a little prayer and carefully lifted the package to set it on one of the racks, hoping the young man it had come from would survive his amputation. He’d been treated early and Charlotte knew the Colonel was both quick and good when it came to operations like this; nevertheless, it was never an easy ordeal. 

At least it wasn’t a child. She’d dealt with small corpses before this war; she and her mother would tenderly care for them, but that was always in the safety and comfort of ritual, the two of them supporting each other. An early death back home might be from accident or disease; here it was almost always a result of the battles around them, and all the more heartbreaking for that.

Shaking her head at these melancholy thoughts, she stepped out of the morgue, making her way to her tent for the supplies she’d been acquiring and thinking about Charles’ upcoming birthday dinner. He’d insisted he didn’t want a fuss but Charlotte knew him well enough to know that he’d be touched by any remembrance or gift on her part.

So she’d quietly made deals and bargains, taking on an extra shift here and there, granting favors in promise of favors returned with several people. From Klinger she’d gotten certain expedited mail orders delivered; from Henderson a bottle of imported wine and best of all Kellye had arranged for an overnight for them in the tent. That last was enough to make Charlotte grin to herself; despite his public decorum, Charles Winchester did have a determined libido and it was making itself known anytime they had a private moment.

Which she adored, if she was honest, since her own had grown quite a bit too. They could talk about music and politics at times, but there were other moments when Charlotte could see the heat in his gaze and would find herself breathless, needing to kiss him. It thrilled her that despite his intellect and poise Charles was still very much a man, with stubble and musk and desire to him.

And his voice! He could drive her crazy with his words alone; sweet nothings or poetic promises of passion rumbled into her ear. Charlotte remembered once asking him to say something crude and he’d done it, his gaze twinkling even as the four letter vulgarity tumbled out of his mouth, almost elegant in his precise enunciation. 

She now knew what a proper Brahmin ‘fuck’ sounded like, to her shivering amusement, and coming from his lips it was erotically potent.

So tonight they would celebrate, and Charlotte was pleased that she would finally be able to cook for him. She scooped up the canvas bag, quickened her steps, making her way to the kitchen, where Private Straminsky looked up from his drying and sighed.

“Okay, so you have to _promise_ to have everything clean and back where it’s supposed to be by oh four hundred hours, Lieutenant or I’m gonna get blamed, got it?”

“Yes, Private I do. Now scoot!” Charlotte shooed him out of the kitchen, waiting until he was gone before smiling. Carefully she unpacked the bag, pulling out various cans and parcels, humming a little as she did so. The familiar labels pleased her, and she set water to boil, listening for footsteps. When she heard them, Charlotte turned to see Charles enter the kitchen, looking puzzled.

“Surprise!” she called to him, smiling. “I’m going to make you dinner and a cake for your birthday!”

His look of quiet delight thrilled Charlotte, as did his blush. “There’s no need . . .” Charles tried to protest, but she shook her head.

“I’m simply trotting out my culinary credentials. Spaghetti _alla partenopea_ and chocolate cake—does that sound good?”

“Marvelously so. May I . . . assist?”

She tossed him an apron.

***

“What do you mean she doesn’t cook?” Charlotte demanded, aghast.

Charles pinkened. “She makes tea, and . . . toast, I think. But we’ve always had a cook. Mrs. Linden has been working for us since before the Wall Street crash.”

She shook her head, “ _Mio Dios_ , that’s unbelievable. Here, hand me that spoon there. So does Honoria at least know how to cook?”

“I believe there was a course or two at her school. Ohh, this smells wonderful. What is it?”

“Oregano. One of the primary ingredients in good Neopolitan cooking. Now pinch it and roll the dried leaves between your thumb and fingers, crumble it good. I wish we had fresh but that will have to be for another time. Oh, all right, I need to drain the pasta . . .”

Minutes later, with a flourish, Charlotte set the dish before Charles, smiling. The heavenly fragrance of rich tomato sauce seasoned with garlic, black olives, oregano and anchovies filled the kitchen, making her stomach growl a little. It had been too long since she’d cooked, and she’d missed it, Charlotte realized.

Charles motioned for her to sit, and waited; she waved to him good-naturedly. “You take the first bite, please.”

He wasn’t sure how to properly coil the noodles but managed to get enough on the fork for a taste, his expression shifting from curiosity to an almost cat-like bliss with the first mouthful, making Charlotte snicker. “Good?”

“Good _Lord_ ,” he managed, dazed, “is this what spaghetti is _supposed_ to taste like?” 

“Yes,” she assured him. “At least a proper spaghetti. Now don’t turn your nose up at it, but I’ve got a Chianti here that should go very well with it.” 

She couldn’t help but feel gratified as Charles ate steadily, complimenting her cooking and toasting her with the wine. They each had second helpings, and when they were both full, he gave a contented sigh. “I had no idea this . . . pasta could be so wonderful. _Alla partenopea_ , you said?”

“Yes, I would have made _alla Bolognese,_ ” Charlotte murmured, “but I couldn’t be sure of getting good ground beef, so I went with the canned anchovies instead. This,” she added, “is what home tastes like to me, _Orso_ —pasta and wine.”

“Oh I could get used to it,” Charles told her with a smirk. “Very much so.”

While they’d eaten the cake been baking and Charlotte pulled the pan out of the oven, gratified to see it too, had turned out well. She set the small pan down and caught the shy look on Charles’ face. He cleared his throat.

“Homemade cake as well . . . I don’t know how much more deeply I can fall in love with you.”

“Charles,” she protested, moved by his sincerity. “It’s just cake.”

“Homemade,” he repeated. “If I have to face growing another year older, I can at least be grateful you’re a part of it, Charlotte my love.”

She had no candles, so she made him blow out a match, much to his amusement, and after a slice each, they did the dishes together. Then Charlotte served up the rest of the pasta and cake, and they took it to the Post-Op ward, where those who were able to indulge did, happily.

“ _Oh signora, potrei baciarti!_ ,” one young man with a full leg cast told her, waving his fork and grinning. Charlotte giggled and translated for Charles as they headed back to the tent.

“He said, “Lady, I could kiss you,” she admitted, giggling a little.

“I’ll simply have to do it for him,” Charles replied, following her in.

She remembered that night for a long time; the sweet sense of losing themselves in each other, being bolder in the give and take of their lovemaking. Charlotte knew that neither of them was particularly experienced, but the sweet and honest passion between them—goaded on by lust and a little Chianti—left them both dazed afterwards.

“I can’t _imagine_ . . . .” Charles murmured, stretching out afterwards and pulling Charlotte to his side, “my parents _ever_ . . . engaging in this.”

“And yet they _must_ have, at least twice,” came her sleepy reply. “They love each other, don’t they?”

“Stodgily,” Charles mused. “More like partners brought together by some established social merger. Mother takes his arm when they go out of the house, and they greet each other with kisses to the cheek on coming and going, but other than that . . .”

“It’s probably better not to dwell on it,” Charlotte advised. “My parents were affectionate but only when at home. It’s called a private life for a reason I suppose.”

“Hmmm,” Charles agreed. “Still . . . this has been the happiest birthday I’ve had in years. Thank you.”

She settled against him, comforted by the slow rise and fall of his breathing. “You’re welcome . . . Next year maybe we’ll have real candles.”

“I wouldn’t change a thing,” Charles sighed happily. “Except perhaps the need for prophylactic practices.”

“We’ll see, once the war ends. Is that what you wished for?” Charlotte chuckled.

“Now now, if one tells the wish it won’t come true,” came his chide. “Sleep; we have little enough time together as it is.”

They slept.


	22. Chapter 22

Charles heard his name bawled out over the PA system several weeks later, just as the season shifted into May. The flow of casualties had been steady and everyone had been busy despite rumors of a potential ceasefire. He set aside the chart he’d been filling out and headed to the colonel’s office, startled to hear Charlotte’s name called to report to the CO as well.

This didn’t bode well, and he quickened his pace.

Charlotte nearly collided with him at the door of the colonel’s office and he let her go in first as courtesy dictated. Radar was just inside with Potter, who held out an envelope.

“Sorry for the broadcast, folks, but you’ve got a registered letter. Problem is, it’s to both of you, so you’ll have to sort it out,” Potter told them, handing over the envelope. “Damnedest thing; came by courier.”

“Really?” Charles murmured, taking the proffered envelope, which was heavily stamped and covered with various postmarks. The address was typed: _Lieutenant Charlotte L. Colombe, c/o Major Charles E. Winchester III, M.A.S.H. unit 4077, Uijeongbu, Gyeonggi Province, South Korea._

The envelope paper was thick, and vaguely familiar; when he read the return address-- _J. Hastings, 9 Avery Street, Boston, USA_ —Charles nodded.

“May I?” Charlotte asked, reaching for it. Charles gave it to her and looked to Potter.

“Personal matters, I’m sure. Thank you for insuring we received it, Colonel.”

“Not the first time I’ve had to pony express a note,” came the indulgent and dismissive nod.

Without having to discuss it, he and Charlotte headed for their haven along the riverbank, exchanging worried glances. Once they’d seated themselves on the log in the shade of the willow, Charlotte held the envelope out to him. “Do the honors?”

Charles flicked out his penknife and neatly slit the flap. He handed the envelope back to Charlotte. “Yours is the first name on it,” he explained, putting the knife away.

With care she pulled out several folded sheets within; the first was a bank draft from Wells Fargo for not only the full amount of Charlotte’s missing savings, but also, Charles noted, recompense for the overdue fees as well.

Charlotte gave a little ‘ooh’ of surprise, timidly touching the check. “Is this what I think it is?”

“So it seems,” Charles murmured. “What else is there?”

Two letters, apparently. One typed in English, the other written in Italian. They looked over the typed one first.

_Dear Miss Colombe,_

_Enclosed please find the draft for your recovered funds and additional expenses; I require you to endorse and return it so that I may safely deposit it in your new account with the First National Bank of Boston. For security’s sake, please send it certified mail and charge any expense to me, J. Hastings._

_Also included is a note addressed to you, which I have been charged to pass onto you as well by the party who originally sent me the draft. Rest assured that I do not read Italian and even if I did, confidentiality prevents me from reading your personal correspondence. Suffice to say that I sense justice has prevailed._

_At your service,_

_J. Hastings, JD_

Charlotte looked up, her expression worried. “I’m scared to look at the second letter,” she muttered.

“We must,” Charles pointed out. “Good or bad, at least we’ll know, Beloved.” He felt his own stomach tighten a bit, but put an arm around her shoulders as she slowly unfolded the second sheet, smoothing it out with one shaky hand.

_“Dear Carlotta,”_ She read. _“Your letter touched me very much and I am honored you wanted my advice. Your family has always been dear to us; never more so than when you took care of my little brother Salvador for his final return home. There will never be any way to repay you for that kindness, but . . .”_ she broke off for a moment and then finished, _“I have tried.”_

Charles squeezed her shoulders a little more tightly. She read on. _“I went to see a person of respect—_  
oh no!”

“Oh dear,” he murmured in realization. 

_“A person of respect,”_ Charlotte continued slowly, _“who read your letter and was as angry at the injustice to you as I was. A person who agreed to sit down with your brother and me to discuss matters. We did not tell your brother about your letter, Carlotta. We did not have to: apparently Ernesto D had bragged to too many people about what your brother did, so the two of them are no longer close. Many people here already now know how your brother treated you._

_“Unfortunately it took a little time to show your brother the error of his ways and a little more to persuade him to re-sell the property but in the end matters were settled to everyone’s agreement. The bank has stopped the investigation and your brother will not go to trial or jail. Colombe & Son will continue to do business as always.”_

Charlotte paused, and Charles let her take a shaky breath before she read on. _“Do **not** feel sorry for him, Carlotta. He brought this on himself. Your brother is a stubborn man, but not a fool. He has learned respect. His hand will heal and the scar from the ice pick through it will remind him that crossing family--any family—is not wise. When the war is over, my parents and I look forward to you visiting us, but I am glad you will be moving to Boston, mia amica. Better for you to start fresh and let go of the past._

_With respect and affection,_

_Leonardo Molinari_

Charles watched her drop the letter and begin to weep, her small shoulders shaking under his arm.

Gently he cradled her closer, feeling slightly sick in the pit of his stomach. They’d wanted revenge, yes, but this . . . the dry report left him feeling angry and wary and guilty. 

“Francisco is such an idiota!” Charlotte managed through a little sob, “and so is Ernesto! I didn’t mean for _this_ to happen!”

Wisely Charles said nothing, letting her grieve and holding her until at last her tears subsided and she leaned against him, hiccuping softly.

“Perhaps we should talk to Father Mulcahy,” he suggested quietly, and she nodded, red-eyed.

They climbed the bank and made their way to the priest’s tent, where he received them and quietly listened to the whole story from beginning to end, his compassionate gaze turning from Charlotte to Charles and back again. When they were done, Father Mulcahy cleared his throat.

“Charlotte, when you wrote your letter to this Leonardo, did you _know_ he would er, consult others?”

“No, not _really_!” she yelped. “He’s a big guy all by himself, and I thought . . . I hoped Leo would show up and just . . . intimidate my brother! Maybe get Franco to admit what he’d done! I didn’t actually think he’d _go_ to . . . people of respect!”

“And what would your brother have done if you told him about your letter?” Mulcahy asked mildly. Charles saw the point the priest was making and stayed quiet, feeling a little better.

“He would have laughed at me, like he always does,” Charlotte replied in weary acknowledgement. “Franco’s never taken me seriously!”

“He’s been notoriously abusive for years,” Charles murmured quietly as he shot a sidelong glance. “Charlotte, you know it’s true. Just because you feel guilty at the moment doesn’t erase what your brother’s been doing to you all your life.”

“There you have it,” Mulcahy gave a small nod. “I know this will sound strange but I _do_ see a blessing here. Clearly the . . . gentlemen who spoke to your brother were far _less_ vindictive than they could have been, and far less so than if your brother had stolen money from _them_. The money has been returned and your brother has learned an overdue, painful, but not _fatal_ lesson in humility. I understand your sense of guilt,” the priest continued gently, “but you’ve committed no actual _sin_ , my child.”

“But I feel so _responsible_! If I hadn’t sent the letter . . .” Charlotte protested, but Father Mulcahy shook his head.

“Then he might have become even _more_ brazen and ended up in a far more dangerous . . . conversation down the line. You are _not_ your brother’s keeper, Charlotte. He made a terrible decision and regardless of your letter has paid for it. Keep in mind that had the banking authorities chosen to prosecute, he _could_ have gone to prison.”

“I . . . I didn’t think of that,” she murmured. Charles caught the priest’s glance and saw wry understanding there. 

He spoke up softly. “What would you advise us to do, Father?” 

“For the moment, wait. And pray, of course,” Father Mulcahy murmured. “It’s as difficult for those in the wake of an event such as this but time does a lot to heal such matters.”

After a quick prayer and blessing, Charles and Charlotte left the tent arm in arm, both quiet. He walked her to her tent, feeling helpless to comfort her but at the door she turned and looked up at him, her smile slightly crooked.

“Sure you want to be engaged to someone as foolish and naïve as I am?” Charlotte asked, her voice trembling.

“I want to be engaged to a woman who cares deeply for a brother who has never reciprocated or even _deserved_ that love,” Charles told her. “She reminds me how blessed I am to love _her._ ”

Charlotte sighed, and hugged him tightly.


	23. Chapter 23

_Dear Honoria,_

_I can’t believe the war is over myself. The last of the casualties have been evacuated and the camp is coming down all around me as I write this. After so much time here it’s a little bewildering to watch it happen._

_Charles is doing better. In these last days we had a group of musicians in our camp—Chinese prisoners of war in fact, and your brother bonded with them over Mozart’s clarinet quintet. Alas, after leaving us in an exchange, they were killed and he took it very hard, even going so far as to destroy several of his records. It will take a while for your brother to regain his equilibrium in regard to that particular composition, I think. Fortunately we talk often and I hope it is helping._

_At the moment the general plan is for us to return to California and receive our discharges before heading on to Boston. Naturally I’m excited to meet you and your parents, but first I must see my own family and settle accounts with them. If there is time I will show Charles all my favorite places in the city so he’ll understand what I love about San Francisco._

_Still, I look forward seeing you, and Boston and the future._

_Lovingly,_

_Charlotte_

_\--oo00oo--_

_Dearest Mother,_

_Currently Charlotte and I are in the process of being discharged; the procedure is taking a while and once we are free, we are obligated to see her father before flying on to Boston._

_Neither she nor I desire a bloated wedding; save the frills and fanfare for Honoria’s nuptials, please. A simple affair with no more than twenty in attendance is all we wish, the sooner the better. I can hear you wringing your hands from here, Mother, but on this issue Charlotte and I stand united._

_And no, she is **not** enceinte. _

_That’s another matter I insist you refrain from inquiring about as well; given what we have been dealing with for the last two years a little forbearance would be appreciated. I have the new position at Boston General to deal with, and Charlotte will have more than enough to handle in setting up the house on Acorn Street without added pressure from you about babies. They **are** on the agenda; give us time._

_Forgive my brusqueness Mother; truly I AM looking forward to coming home and having you meet Charlotte. It’s been a long two years and alas, I may be bearing the brunt of it for a while.  
With deep affection,_

_Charles_

The trip from Letterman Hospital in the Presidio to Water Street on the North Shore was less than five miles all told, but as the taxi moved through the winding roads, Charlotte fought a shiver that wasn’t all from the chill in the air. Familiar sights whizzed by, and she pointed them out to Charles as they did. “The Palace of Fine Arts was back there, and we’re heading into the Marina district . . . oh! Just north a few blocks is the Ghirardelli chocolate factory!”

He nodded, shooting her an amused look. “I sense a stop on our return.”

“Yes,” Charlotte assured him with a grin. “I will have to _insist_ on that.”

She thought Charles looked handsome in his button down shirt, sweater and blazer; more professorial than military. It felt odd to be wearing a dress again herself for that matter, and as for the heels, all Charlotte could hope was that she didn’t trip. 

At least Honoria’s scarf looked lovely, she thought, pulling it closer around her shoulders.  
Ten minutes later the driver announced, “twelve fifty-five Water Street, folks. That will be a dollar fifteen.”

As Charles paid the fare, Charlotte stared at the plate glass window, the familiar gold scroll on it reading “Colombe & Son Funeral Parlor” on it. The display of guest books, engraved cards and silk flowers brought back memories, and she blinked as Charles came around to open the door for her. He took her hand to help her out, murmuring, “Are you ready?”

“I hope so,” she replied, squeezing his fingers for courage. 

As she opened the shop door, Charlotte spotted her father—chubby and blessed with salt and pepper curls-- at the desk in the corner; when he looked up, his gaze was of pure joy.

“Carlotta, mi figlia!” he called, pushing away from paperwork and darting over to her. He hugged her tightly and the familiar scent of his pomade and aftershave brought tears to her eyes. She clung to him, moved beyond words at his love.

“Daughter, daughter, I have missed you so!” he told her, pulling back to cup her face in his cool hands, his own normally tranquil expression fused with delight. “Still too thin for an Italian girl!”

“Missed you too, Papà,” she sniffled as he kissed her forehead, “I really did. Ah, this is my fiancé, Charles.”

She watched her father reluctantly turn and look Charles up and down, taking in his unexpected height and quiet demeanor before slowly smiling. “The surgeon, well! Are you a good surgeon?”

“The best I can be, sir,” Charles replied. Clearing his throat, he added, “Chiedo la tua benedizione per il nostro matrimonio.” Charlotte tried not to chuckle; despite much coaching on her part his request for a blessing on their future marriage still came out oddly tinged through his Boston accent.

But her father gave a great sigh, looking up at Charles keenly. “That you ask this of me so humbly, and in Italian no less speaks well of you, young man. I know my Carlotta; she would never choose you unless you were worthy.”

Her father then threw his arms around Charles and hugged him tightly; Charlotte did laugh at his befuddled expression.

“Lo don con tutto il cuore!” Her father called out, adding, “With all my heart. All I ask is that you do well by her.”

“I shall, sir, I shall,” Charles promised, very pink around the ears. Charlotte came over and joined the hug, feeling a rush of love for both of them; on the other side of the front window glass a few passersby were smiling.

Her father hung the’closed’ sign on the door and ushered the two of them upstairs, chatting all the while. Charlotte led the way up to the living room, settling in on the sofa and patting the spot next to her for Charles to join her. The familiar walls and furniture filled her with a sense of happiness, and she watched her fiancé look around.

“It’s very . . .”

“Small?” Charlotte finished, giving a little shrug. Her father had gone into the kitchen to pour them glasses of fruit wine.

“Cozy,” Charles corrected sweetly. “I can picture you as a child here.”

She pointed out a few items to him, telling their stories. “That little painting is of Joseph of Arimathea, patron saint of undertakers—a gift from my uncle when the family first arrived in San Francisco back at the turn of the century. And that lace doily over the sideboard . . . I helped my mother make that when I was eight. It took _forever_ ,” Charlotte sighed dramatically, “but I enjoyed doing it.”

“What about those?” Charles asked about the frames on the sideboard. Charlotte rose and he followed, looking more closely at the photos.

“This was Mama,” Charlotte murmured, picking up a tinted photo and smiling. The woman in the picture looked very much like her, with longer hair coiled up neatly; a parochial graduation portrait. “And this is all of us, back when I was about ten, I think.”

Charles studied the formal family picture, focusing on the serious boy leaning next to Charlotte. “Your brother, I take it?”

“Yep,” she nodded and sighed. “Franco.”

She watched Charles study the photo, and when he looked up, she answered his unasked question. “Clubfoot. That’s why he couldn’t go into the Army but I could.”

“That,” Charles murmured quietly as her father came back with a tray, “Explains a few things.”

“I’m sure it does,” Charlotte agreed, and turned to smile at her father.

*** *** ***

They spent a lovely afternoon together, and Charlotte was delighted at how well her father got along with Charles, (“Call me Francisco, young man.”) A mutual love of classical music certainly helped, she knew. In one of the lulls in conversation she asked about Franco and her father sighed.

“He knows you two were coming today and he should be here, but . . .” Her father shrugged. “Who can say when he’ll show up?”

Charlotte shared a commiserating look with her father and then checked her watch. “And our time is almost over. We’ll be here for the week and then after that, we’re leaving for Boston.”

“So soon?” her father looked sad, twirling his wine glass by the stem. 

“I’m afraid so, Francisco,” Charles rumbled. “My new position at the hospital starts within the month and there are several matters to deal with before that.”

“Such as your wedding?” Francisco murmured wistfully.

“Yes about _that_ ,” Charlotte smiled, pulling out an envelope from her purse. “Here is your plane ticket, Papà. Good for a round trip to Boston; just call the airline a few days ahead and bring it with you.”

Her father goggled at her, and she started to laugh, Charles chuckling along. 

“No! My children, truly?” He stared at the envelope in amazement.

“Truly, sir,” Charles murmured. “We both want you to be there. At the moment it’s tentatively planned for the beginning of September.” 

“Come ero così benedetto?” her father mumbled, wiping away a tear. “So blessed. Yes, of course, _of course_ I will be there!”

There were more hugs, and her father promised to ship out Charlotte’s possessions to the Boston address. By the time they all traipsed back downstairs the afternoon sunshine was slanting through the street.

And standing in the middle of the store: Franco.


	24. Chapter 24

In front of him, Charles felt Charlotte freeze up; he set his hands on her shoulders protectively as the short muscular man looked them over, his gaze intense.

“Char,” came his murmur, “This the guy?”

He stepped forward, and Charles felt his senses flare warningly. Something about the other man’s casualness seemed forced; more so than the tension in the parlor warranted. He stared at Charles.

“So you’re the hotshot surgeon who’s gonna sweep my sister off to the East, huh?”

“Franco,” came Francisco’s warning tone. The older man moved closer, looking annoyed. “Mind your manners.”

“Right, right,” Franco nodded absently. “Because it’s all about Char. Always been about her, hasn’t it Pop? I work my ass off keeping the business going, doing what I have to and at the end of the day all I hear is how proud you are that she’s doing her patriotic duty. Just because she could get in and I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t _want_ to, you know.”

“Franco,” Charlotte began, her tone soft, but he gave her a sardonic look.

“Don’t.” He held up his right hand to show the small circular scar in the palm. “Because I needed another reminder about how much better you are than I am. Smarter, more talented . . . not _all_ of us were cut out for school, Char. Why couldn’t you be like Mama and just stay in the background? And the money . . . we were gonna expand. Hire Ernesto, get in with some of the big names, but you shut that down, didn’t you?”

“Franco, _smettila di imbarazzarmi_!” his father hissed. “Apologize!”

“Sorry,” Franco shrugged, and brought his other hand up, the point of the ice pick glittering in the afternoon light. “But hey, we can call it even with one little jab, right?”

Everyone froze.

“W-what?” Charlotte demanded, and Charles felt her shoulders tense up. He stepped around her without thinking, holding Franco in his gaze, willing his fury into deliberate calm.

“An eye for an eye--is that what you’re proposing?” he rumbled. “ _Preposterous._ ”

Franco sneered. “Oh really? Clearly Char hasn’t explained how important blood is, especially around here. I’m not goin’ to jail because I bled, Mr. Hot-shot Surgeon. My blood was my promise that I’d put the money back and keep my mouth shut. And I did it. What I need now though, is for Charlotte to bleed a little too.” He rolled the ice pick handle with his fingers. “It’s only fair. It would put paid to everything. She bleeds; you both go on to a happy ending.”

“No!” Francisco moved to grab the ice pick from Franco, who swung it menacingly in his father’s face.

“Si, Papà. That’s the only good-bye I want from my little sister. That she gets a little pain back along with everything else.”

Before Charles could say anything a loud, three-way argument in Italian broke out around him with Charlotte and her father hissing at Franco, who snarled back at them, waving the ice pick. Charlotte’s body language indicated she was willing to sacrifice herself to keep the peace, and her father was refusing, his chubby face going apoplectic with rage.

A strange sense of calm came over him, and Charles knew exactly what to do. In the midst of their fighting, he stepped forward and snatched the ice pick from Franco in one quick grab, tossing it up to catch it by the handle. He dropped his left hand on the banister rail and stared for a second. _Just above the dorsal metacarpal by a half-inch; go in between the third bipennate lumbrical . . ._

Charles drove the ice pick down through the back of his hand.

The other three stared, all conversation stopping as if a switch had flicked off, and Charles would have laughed, but the burst of pain had him gasping a bit as blood immediately gushed up around the wound.

“Jesus fucking CHRIST!” Franco blurted, eyes wide. “The HELL?”

“Honor,” Charles managed stiffly, pulling the wet pick out and dropping it on the carpet of the parlor. “Is now _satisfied_ , I take it?”

“Charles!” Charlotte frantically pressed Honoria’s scarf around his hand to staunch the bleeding. “ _Charles_!”

“I’ll be all right Beloved,” he assured her, fighting a little nausea. “Some disinfectant and a bandage . . .”

Charlotte however, was gone. A small tornado of pure fury, she launched herself at her brother, kicking, slapping, biting, driving him back under the onslaught of her anger.

“You _coglione! Fottiti_! Franco Colombe you bastard, you are nothing but pure _merda_ and I will fucking KILL you!” she howled, raking her nails across his face, and pulling his hair. Her brother tried to defend himself but couldn’t quite manage it. They crashed into the little table that held a bowl of business cards.

“Charlotte!” Charles called but Francisco shook his head, a gleam of pride in his face. He came over to Charles, pulling out a clean handkerchief and pressing it to the wound.

“No, this has been a _long_ time coming, Charles. We shall let them resolve it. Come, I have a first aid kit upstairs.”

Charles dizzily followed Francisco up the stairs as the sounds of yelps, cracking furniture and cursing continued in the parlor below.

\--oo00oo—

The guards at the Presidio did a double take but saluted as they drove through, holding out their IDs. Charles couldn’t blame them—Charlotte sported a black eye and a puffy lower lip along with a fierce smile, and his own hand was heavily wrapped in bandages. 

“Beloved,” he tried to assure her once more. “I knew what I was doing. I shall be fine.”

“No,” she protested. “Charles, you’re a surgeon! Your hands are _vital_ to your work! You need to be seen by the best orthopedic specialist Letterman’s got, right now and I will not take no for an answer! The idea, the very _idea_ of you . . . doing that to yourself!” she huffed, fighting tears again.

“I hit one of the few spots that wouldn’t do lasting damage,” Charles repeated firmly. “I know my anatomy.”

“I want a second opinion,” she glared at him before directing the taxi to take them to the hospital.

 

“Yep, you got lucky,” Doctor O’Dell murmured, re-wrapping the wound. “Clean through and through; as long as you take the antibiotics and keep this clean you should be fine, Major. Tell me, does this have uh, anything to do with the lieutenant’s black eye?”

“Not directly,” Charles lied. “It’s a long story.”

“I bet. Well in any case just be glad you’re right-handed,” O’Dell nodded. “Oh, and congratulations on the Boston position. They’re lucky to be getting you.”

“Thank you.” Warmed by this, Charles stepped out of the room only to be engulfed in a hug. Charlotte looked up at him, waiting for the verdict.

“As I told you, I’m fine,” Charles sighed, “unlike your brother.”

Charlotte scowled. “He deserved his broken nose. And his broken wrist.”

“And his testicles?”

“They’ll heal,” Charlotte shrugged. “Maybe.”

Charles snickered. “So all this time I’ve considered you a delicate flower; a petite angel who needed me to defend her, when in reality . . .”

“Hey, Franco _pushed_ you into this,” Charlotte pointed out, her expression flinty. “That happens; all bets are off, Orso. I love you and I WILL go down fighting for you.”

Charles looked down into her face, aware of how bright and beautiful her eyes were. “My _God_ I love you,” he told her softly, stroking her cheek. “My fierce and wonderful bride to be.”

“Temper,” she sighed. “I don’t . . . I don’t lose it very often but . . .” Charlotte blinked rapidly, and to stop further tears, she sniffled. “Okay, let’s just . . . go get some rest.”

His room was larger, and on the third story. Charlotte made him take a bath and joined him in it; a scandalous move that Charles appreciated very much. To have someone soap him up was a new luxury, and he enjoyed the view of a gleaming wet fiancée stretching over him to do so.

“I think we should _always_ bathe like this,” he teased, aware that his erection was rubbing nicely against the valley between her hips. “I feel as decadent as a Roman.”

She giggled, and after some extended wet and warm foreplay, they moved matters to the bedroom, drying off and sliding between the sheets together. 

Supine, Charles let her straddle him again, glad to keep his weight off his hand, and savored the way she slid the condom onto his turgid shaft, toying with it lightly. 

“You are so beautiful,” she murmured. “Mahogany curls, strong legs, furry belly. I so love the look of you, Charles.”

Before he could argue that he was not worthy of praise, Charlotte shifted, guiding his heavy erection into her with a little sigh of desire, and he growled at the pleasure of breaching her.

Slowly they made love, finding a deliberate rhythm that steadily grew quicker. Charles loved the feel of Charlotte’s hands braced on his chest, fingers raking the curls there as she bounced on him, whimpering happily. He shifted his un-bandaged hand so that the back of his fingers lightly flanked the nub of her clitoris and when she gasped Charles rubbed in the softest of touches.

Charlotte arched up, nipples hard, hips grinding against his, and the sight was so stunning that he felt his own orgasm surge in sullen hot pulses in glorious syncopation with her spasms.

She slumped onto him, spent and slack after a moment, and he stroked her bare spine, comforted by the her heartbeat against his.


	25. Chapter 25

It took nearly two days to reach Boston; the flight had a stopover in Dallas and despite all the time to prepare, Charlotte still felt butterflies in her stomach. She checked her reflection one last time in the bathroom mirror of the hotel room, wishing she’d chosen a different dress, and had gotten a haircut, and had a better brand of lipstick . . . At least the black eye had faded. Sighing, she stuck her tongue out at her image and laughed, feeling lighter for it.

“You are who you are,” Charlotte told herself. “Francisco Colombe’s daughter. Surgical nurse, morgue liaison, mediocre artist and proud of it.” _Sii forte_.”

Charles turned to her as she stepped out, his smile affectionate. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she gulped, and followed him out to the lobby. 

This time he was the one pointing out landmarks during their taxi ride, and the delight in his voice warmed her. “We’ll pass the old North Church, made famous in Longfellow’s poem, and you can see the hahrbor . . .” Even now his accent was getting thicker, Charlotte noted.

“Will we see Hahr-vard too?” she teased gently. Charles harrumphed, but grinned nonetheless. The ride took longer due to the construction of the new turnpike, and by the time the taxi pulled up to 125 Myrtle Street on Beacon Hill, Charlotte was clutching Charles’ lightly bandaged hand tightly enough to make him wince a bit.

“Beloved, they’re not going to _bite_ you,” he murmured soothingly. 

“I know,” she whispered back, “But it’s still a bit like walking into a lion’s den.”

He helped her out of the taxi as the driver unloaded their luggage and accepted fare and tip from Charles. Charlotte looked at the glossy black door set into the brick face of the townhouse, and felt an artist’s sense of delight at the rich colors; the cool dapple of sunlight against the façade of the building.

Then the door opened and a wide-eyed cheerful girl scrambled out, jumping the three steps and launching herself at Charles, who caught her forward momentum with an ‘oomph’.

“C-Charles!” she laughed, her hug tightening around him. Charlotte took a step back herself to give them a moment, delighted at Honoria’s enthusiasm. The younger Winchester sibling was long and lanky in her sweater set, with a high ponytail of carrot red hair and a pointed nose. She and Charles had the same eyes though, and when her brother set her down, she looked at Charlotte, shyly holding out her arms.

Charlotte squeezed the girl in a hug, feeling her trepidation disappear in that warmth. 

“I am s-s-s-so glad to meet y-you, finally!” Honoria whispered, smiling.

“I feel the same way,” Charlotte replied. “Were you watching for us from the window?”

The girl nodded, and then another figure appeared in the open doorway, peering out.

“Chahrles,” came a deep voice, rolling with the same calm and measured tone. “Welcome home, my son.”

Charles Emerson Winchester the Second swung his black lacquered cane and stepped onto the first brick step, making his way down impatiently and when he reached the sidewalk he draped the cane’s handle in the crook of his elbow and reached both hands out to wring that of his son, wrapping his grip around him.

“Father,” Charles rumbled, looking solemn and delighted at the same time.

He was as tall as Charles, although leaner and paler. He too was balding, but the frizzy corona of white hair around his head was close-cropped, and his blue eyes appeared magnified through the reading glasses perched low on his nose. Charlotte felt the weight of his gaze when he turned it to her. She thought he looked like a professor in his button-down, cardigan and slacks.

“Father, this is Charlotte Colombe, my . . . intended,” Charles introduced her quietly and she held out her hand to him, feeling his warm fingers grasp hers with gentleness.

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance my deahr,” he murmured. “Please call me Win.”

She nodded, “Thank you. I’m very pleased to meet you as well, sir.”

Motioning for them to enter, Win slowly climbed the brick stairs. Charles and Charlotte moved to collect the luggage with Honoria helping, her grin infectious. “F-Father and I took t-turns at the w-window.”

“I thought as much,” Charles replied, his voice soft. Charlotte found herself being ushered through a lovely foyer and an archway to the left; a spacious living room with thick oriental rugs in pale creams and greens topped by Georgian furniture. Rising from the sofa was the woman Charlotte knew would be her future mother-in-law.

Pamela Winchester wore a wavy bob of silver hair and a tremulous expression; she extended her arms to Charles, who allowed himself to be hugged tightly by his mother.

“Oh Charles,” she murmured, “Back safe and sound! I’m so . . . grateful.”

“I kept my word about being careful,” he assured her, “Winchesters do keep their word.”

“Yes they do,” his mother agreed, and turned to look at Charlotte, meeting her gaze squarely. “So you’re Charlotte!”

Charlotte extended her hands but the woman hugged her as well; a delicate one consisting of a press of a cool cheek to hers, a soft squeeze of arms. Stepping back, she smiled. “You must call me Pamela, dear. And thank you.”

Startled, Charlotte felt herself blush. “I haven’t done anything . . .”

“Oh you _have_ , trust me,” came the knowing reply. “And I’m grateful. Now come sit down and tell us all about yourself, won’t you?”

She caught Charles’ amused expression out of the corner of her eye as they on the sofa. Honoria brought in a sterling tea service on a tray nearly as large as the coffee table itself and Pamela served it up. 

Charlotte noted that Win sat in the large armchair and watched everyone keenly, accepting a cup from Honoria with a nod of thanks. The questions began, and Charlotte found herself telling the story of how she and Charles had met, and about the little spot along the creek in Korea. By prior decision with Charles, she avoided mentioning the charade part of their relationship, and only mentioned her brother in passing even though she felt guilty about him and how matters stood with her family at the moment.

“It all sounds rather romantic; meeting in a war zone,” Pamela mused. “Like something Hemingway would write.”

“N-none of his romances panned out M-Mother,” Honoria pointed out with a grin, but her mother waved a dismissing hand.

“Pooh, you know what I mean. The dashing officer and the beautiful n—"

“—the beautiful _officer_ ,” Charles broke in quietly. “Charlotte merits her share of recognition for her rank as much as anything else. At times her work was harder than mine.”

Charlotte flushed again, but Pamela gave a slow nod of agreement. “Well said, dear. Your hand . . . are you hurt?”

“A minor puncture,” Charles replied. “Nothing serious. So tell me, has the house on Acorn been aired out? Did you have someone check the eaves for wasps? You know that north corner has always been troublesome.”

As they began to chat, Charlotte felt a little left out until she noticed Honoria and her father gesturing to her, and making a little murmur she excused herself and followed them out from the tea, leaving Charles and his mother behind to talk. In the foyer, Honoria gave her another smile.

“F-Father and I will show you around and to your room if y-y-you’d like a nap. Charles and M-Mother will be catching u-up for a while.”

“Pamela tends to talk,” Win rumbled, “a great deal. Shall we?”

For the next forty-five minutes Charlotte toured the house, asking questions and enjoying the easy company of Win and Honoria. They peeked into the sunny back kitchen and introduced her to Mrs. Linden, stopped by the wood-paneled library and study and then took the elevator upstairs. Win murmured, “Mangled my knee in the Great War; hasn’t been the same since so we installed this when we had the place built.”

“I just t-take it because it’s fun,” Honoria admitted. “Easier to g-get the harp up and down.”

“A full-sized harp?” Charlotte goggled a bit, making the girl giggle as she nodded. 

Upstairs were three bedrooms and Honoria’s music chamber. There was also a little rear balcony that overlooked a charming but tiny back yard down below.

Charlotte found her intimidation evaporating under Honoria and Win’s easy camaraderie. Honoria was bubbly and bright; her father was much quieter but open and prone to little stories about certain objects or rooms. When the tour was over, Honoria pointed to the bedroom with the slate blue walls and white trim. “Th-This one’s yours. Used to b-be Charles’.”

Touched, Charlotte noticed her suitcases had been brought up. The four poster with the cream chenille spread did look inviting, and she tried to stifle a yawn in response to it. 

“Rest, Charlotte my dear,” Win told her calmly. “We dine later in the summer, when the air is cooler.”

Encouraged, she nodded and they left her there to kick off her shoes and stretch out on the mattress. Even though she was tired it took a while to fall asleep but eventually Charlotte did, comforted by the sound of the breeze through the trees outside


	26. Chapter 26

They set off in the mid-afternoon, taking advantage of the shade trees along the sidewalks. The entire stroll was short; half a block down Myrtle, three blocks down West Cedar Street and halfway up Acorn to reach number eight. Charles felt a worrying anticipation in showing it to Charlotte: would she like it? Was it too close to his parents? Would it live up to all his glowing descriptions?

As they approached, Charlotte loosened her arm from his and stood back, studying the front of the townhouse, her head cocked in a way he recognized as an artist’s assessment. She hummed a little and then turned to him, her smile sweet.

“A red door . . . it’s beautiful.”

A sense of relief flooded him and Charles hurried to unlock it, fumbling a little in his eagerness to open the door and usher her in. Charlotte waited, nudging his arm companionably. “This is cranberry, you know. A pretty shade.”

“I did _not_ know that,” he murmured back, finally undoing the lock, “but I do now. Here’s the vestibule . . .”

Part of him wanted to play tour guide and lead her through the house room by room, but Charles held back, preferring to let her set the pace. She stepped inside, looking up and down, nodding a little. The layout was similar to that of his parents’ house but instead of an elevator, a winding staircase graced the back end of the central hallway, curling up to the second story. 

At the moment Charlotte had wandered into the living room just off the right hand side of the vestibule and was circling the furniture, humming again. Charles stepped in and cleared his throat.  
“The portrait there is of Captain Daniel Winchester, my father’s great-uncle. I realize he’s rather dour-looking, but it was a gift and I’m afraid I feel duty-bound to hang it somewhere in the house.”

Charlotte looked up at the portrait for a moment and nodded, smirking. “I choose to believe he’s dour because he would have rather done anything but sit for his portrait.”

“Quite likely,” Charles agreed. “I’m told it used to be a tedious affair.”

“An artist likes to work in the same light when possible, so it was an investment of time over the course of months,” she pointed out. “And for the captain, that meant being committed to an ongoing appointment. Still, he’s got that Winchester nose and those blue eyes.”

“That he does,” Charles noted. “So this is the living room. I hardly used it to be honest. Most of my time prior to Korea I spent in the study or the bedroom.”

“You won’t have to change the latter on _my_ account,” Charlotte teased, and Charles felt his face heat up as he moved closer to her. The current living arrangement of Charlotte staying with his parents while he stayed here had been necessary and prudent, but still a nuisance, especially since they hadn’t had a chance to do more than share a few chaste kisses since arriving in Boston nearly two weeks earlier.

As luck would have it though, today his mother was in the midst of arranging the wedding locale, so Charles had offered to show Charlotte the house. When Honoria volunteered to come along as well Charles had given her a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. His sister grinned and ‘suddenly’ remembered a book she needed to return to the public library. Charles knew he would be teased privately about it later but at the moment it was a small matter.

Charlotte moved to put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I’ve missed you,” she confessed. “Somehow sleeping in your bed isn’t the same when it’s without you _in_ it.”

“And I have missed _you_ ,” he sighed. “I never understood how vital simple human contact can be until you, Beloved.”

“Mmm,” came her agreement. “We did get away with a _lot_ in Korea, didn’t we?”

“Propriety is a harsh mistress,” he rumbled, kissing the top of her head. “Still, we have several places to examine, including the . . . bedrooms.”

She looked up, hazel eyes twinkling now. “Doctor Winchester, I can hardly wait.”

And that little admission made him tingle. Perfunctorily Charles led her through his downstairs study on the other side of the main hall, pointed out the kitchen and dining room in the back, then followed her up the winding staircase, allowing himself the erotic thrill of peeking up her skirt as he did so.

It was a lecherous thing to do, but dear God, utterly delightful as well, particularly when Charlotte turned at the top of the stairs and caught him at it. She dropped him a slow wink and sashayed a few steps back to let him clear the stairs.

“Did that give you any ideas?”

“Absolutely,” he assured her, trying not to laugh. “Several of which I will gladly share with you.”

“That’s a promise I’m going to insist you keep,” Charlotte giggled, and let him briefly show her the two back rooms before ushering her towards the front ones, culminating in the master bedroom on the left. Charlotte stepped in and squealed with delight at the sight of the tall four-poster bed.

Charles leaned against the doorway, watching as she looked over her shoulder at him, and after a charged moment of mutual staring, she purred, “The zipper to my dress . . .”

Slowly he pushed himself forward and caught the little tab, tugging it down her spine; it growled as he did so. Charlotte shrugged out of the sleeveless affair and stepped out of it, her pale pink brassiere, panties and garter belt seductively sweet against her skin. His mouth went dry and Charles felt the throb of his pulse through his thickening shaft.

“Charhlotte,” he managed, and then she was in his arms, kissing him with little gasps and flicks of her tongue against his. The mingled scent of her clean skin and the Shalimar she wore had him dizzy, and he slid his hands down her warm back, pulling her closer.

They kept kissing, winding around each other and Charles felt her fumble with his shirt buttons and the zipper at his fly. His disrobing was less graceful than hers, but Charlotte’s sigh of appreciation made up for it, and when they both produced condoms at the same time, they laughed.

“Great libidos think alike,” she giggled. “Oh Charles . . ."

“How did you . . ?” he murmured, sidetracked by the image of her simply strolling into a drugstore in Boston to purchase them.

“Presidio PX. I thought it would be good to stock up before we left,” Charlotte told him before tearing open the packet. Charles groaned as her talented fingers rolled the slick latex onto his prick. “Annnd now I’m SO glad I did!”

“I con _cur_ ,” Charles growled before pressing hard kisses to her neck, and walking her back towards the bed. He loomed over her, feeling hot and urgent and desperately in love with this sweet imp of a woman. She purred and kissed him from one corner of his mouth to the other, eyes bright.

“I want—” she wriggled, twisting in his arms until she was face down on the edge of the bed, her firm little ass pressed up against him, “ _This_.”

“Ohhh,” he grunted, throbbing against the thin nylon of her panties. “Um, yes. Yes, _that_ . . .”

Charlotte wiggled out of them and widened her stance, working a hand behind her to help angle his shaft, and Charles gritted his teeth, willing back the shudder of lust at her touch. That he, an intelligent, civilized man could be so utterly undone by the entrancing vision of her pert ass framed in a garter belt had him dazed.

Charles braced one hand on the bed and slowly pushed forward, fighting the desire to thrust hard, the way his entire body was urging him to do. Under him, the sweet cushion of Charlotte’s ass ground against his thighs and she . . . yodeled.

That sweet joy-filled cry broke his reserve and he rocked into her, stroking deep, the pleasure almost more than he could bear. Apparently this particular position was as wonderful for her as well; Charlotte squealed, arching her spine. “Ohhhhhhyesyesyesyes!” she burbled, counter-stroking back onto him.

They found a lovely rhythm for a good while, hot and hard and filled with groans; Charlotte clawed the spread in front of her and the sight of that made him growl himself. It was a delight to catch her hips and feel the lace of the straps slide over the backs of his hands as Charles thrust quicker and quicker. Just before he knew he wouldn’t last much longer, he felt the slick vise of her cleft squeeze as she shuddered, mewling as the pleasure overcame her. 

That did it, and Charles let the heat drive him hard and deep, blinding him to everything but the sweetness of taking Charlotte and slumping over her damp spine, drained of fluid, passion, and all rational thought.

A while later, he roused himself, and Charles had just enough presence to grip the condom as he reluctantly disengaged himself from Charlotte and pulled it off, setting it aside on the carpet for later disposal. Charlotte turned her face to him, her curls damp and her expression utterly serene. “I _needed_ that,” she confessed.

“As did _I_ , you beautiful bewitching woman,” Charles admitted, laughing softly at himself. “Although perhaps the next room I should show you is the shower?”

Charlotte giggled.

*** *** ***

She was quiet as they walked back to Myrtle Street at sunset, and Charles knew her well enough now to know it was something on her mind, so he slowed his pace.

“Charlotte, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Well . . .” she sighed, looking up at him. “The house is lovely. It’s charming and perfect and all . . . _you_.”

Charles drew in a breath, instinctively knowing what she meant.

“I mean I’m just wondering where _I_ fit in,” Charlotte murmured shyly. “Everything’s decorated and arranged and in its place. Everything but me.” 

“That’s why I needed you to see it as it is, and figure out how to make it _our_ home,” Charles replied earnestly. They’d reached the crosswalk and waited for the light to change. “Beloved, the only room I’m unwilling to change is the study, which I need for professional reasons; the rest of it is in your hands. Hang the captain’s portrait wherever you wish; change the furniture or wall colors or rug, I trust your taste and want you to be happy there.”

Her eyes grew large and she nearly tripped stepping off the curb when the traffic stopped, but Charles steadied her with his arm. “Oh I don’t want to change _every_ thing!”

“Then don’t,” he shrugged. “Frankly, I was hoping you’d convert one of the back bedrooms into a studio for yourself, and that we might consider making the bedroom across from the Master into a . . . nursery.”

“A studio? A nursery?” it was amusing to hear the delight in her voice, and Charles nodded.

“Yes. Your gift with art needs a place of its own to thrive, Charlotte, and as for the latter, well it’s good to think ahead, hmm?”

She stopped, tugging him to face her, and hugged him hard, right there on the sidewalk between Mt. Vernon and Pinckney Street in a display of affection that drew a few whistles and smiles from passersby.

And for once, Charles didn’t give a hang for respectability as he hugged her in return.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, readers. I left out chapter 14! I've gone back to rectify this, so it should all be good from this point on. Thanks for being patient!

Charlotte found herself caught up in a blitz of shopping with her future mother-in-law, all in preparation for her upcoming wedding. She and Charles had chosen Saturday, September 12th as the date, and after calling her father long-distance to let him know that, Charlotte had turned herself over to Pamela for guidance.

“We _generally_ attend Church of the Covenant on Newbury, but they couldn’t make arrangements on short notice,” Pamela sniffed, looking at the legal pad of notes on her lap. “Annoying, especially after all these years, but our dear friend and lawyer Jedidiah Hastings has offered his lovely garden out at his Back Bay mansion so there’s that. Now about the priest,” she murmured slowly. “Will you want a Catholic wedding?”

Charlotte sighed. “Originally I would have said yes, but the compromise Charles and I reached was that we would marry in any denomination as long as we raised our children as Catholic.” She held her breath, ready for an outburst or cutting remark or objection.

Pamela surprised her by giving a nod. “I think that’s a good choice.”

“You’re not . . . upset?” Charlotte probed cautiously.

“Charlotte,” came the sigh, “I never thought Charles _would marry_ , let alone consider _children_ until after I was ready to topple in the grave. Having them brought up in a strong faith—any faith—is rather like icing on the cake. He’s nominally Presbyterian as it is, so any extra exposure to religion would probably do him good.”

The relief washing through her left Charlotte slightly dizzy. “Really?”

“Truly,” Pamela chuckled. “Let’s just say he’s not the only person the war has changed and I’m sure Pastor Henry would be delighted to do the service. And about your dress . . . there are some darling tea-length ones we might consider . . . . ”

*** *** ***

_The door squeaked. She was in the morgue and the bags were there but then it was the OR and every table had a bag on it. Where were the doctors? That was wrong. Charlotte tried to open one bag but as she did it was filled with grass and mud she knew was from the creek. The door squeaked and she ran outside. It was a strange street with no signs and when she looked around all the windows and doors had pale mangled corpses looking out at her. . . the door squeaked . . ._

Charlotte jolted awake, breathing hard. The room was dark with only a little moonlight shining through the window. A squeak. She flinched, rolling to look and saw the branch scrape the glass of the bedroom window in a gust of wind.

The sound was exactly the same pitch as the morgue door in Korea, she realized.

For a moment Charlotte stared at it, and then she curled more tightly, clutching the pillow as she broke into quiet sobs of relief, fear and sorrow. Loneliness hit her hard and she longed for Charles, ached for him. The crazy urge to get up and walk to him on Acorn Street occurred to her, but when she checked the time she knew she couldn’t. Showing up at two twenty in the morning over a dumb nightmare would be exceedingly foolish, she realized with a little despair. He’d be amused.

Still, she wasn’t eager to get back to sleep, so she rose, wiped her eyes, and wrapped herself in her robe before stepping out to the hall for the elevator. Charlotte hoped there was something interesting in the bookcase down in the living room; some book she could lose herself in for a while before heading back to bed. The house was ghostly after dark, and she tried not to bump into anything as she stepped out of the elevator.

A light was on.

Startled, Charlotte peeked into the living room and spotted Win in his bathrobe, cane leaning against his armchair as he turned a page. He looked over the top of his book at her before whispering. “Charlotte. Come in.”

Charlotte glided over, coming to sit at the closest point on the sofa, just on the edge of the floor lamp light as Win slipped a bookmark into his novel and closed it. He rested a bony hand on the cover and they sat in silence for a moment.

She had no idea what to say.

Then Win spoke softly. “In nineteen eighteen I was in the third division sent to Château-Thierry, France. I was a machine-gunner assigned with my unit to provide cover for the French retreat at the second bridge. For nearly two days in June we were constantly shooting, in between explosions and heavy artillery fire. Blood, smoke, screams . . . but it was the rattle of the ammunition that stayed with me. That steady clink-clink-clink sound. Hearing it is enough to take me _right_ back there. Even after thirty-four years.”

Charlotte swallowed hard.

He cocked his head and looked at her. “Once, Pamela drummed her nails on a wineglass while we were at a restaurant and I went into a cold sweat. Another time Honoria broke a string of pearls and when they bounced on the tiles in the hallway I found myself holding back a scream.”

“Win . . .” Charlotte impulsively reached for his hand. He took her fingers in his, his touch cool but strong. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, my dear,” he told her quietly. “It’s not something that haunts me often and when it does I’ve learned to live with my . . . ghost. Tell me, Charlotte, what’s yours?”

She caught her breath and then spoke. “A kind of squeak. Back in Korea the door to the 4077th’s morgue never got oiled and I just got . . . used to hearing it I guess. And just now I heard it when one of the tree branches scraped the window. It . . . it gave me a nightmare.”

Charlotte blinked at how good it felt to say it aloud, feeling tears well up again, but Win squeezed her fingers lightly.

“It’s all right. You’re here and safe, just as I am. But you _know_ your ghost now, so that’s half the battle.”

Win held her hand a moment longer, his gaze compassionate behind his glasses. “What do you say to a cup of cocoa my dear? I think we both would benefit from a little something warm before going back to bed.”

They made their way to the kitchen and Win worked on the cocoa, his deft actions revealing it was clearly a familiar process. Charlotte accepted the hot cup a little while later, feeling young and foolish. She sipped it, letting the warmth go down and Win gingerly sat across from her at the kitchen table, hooking his cane on the tabletop as he settled in with his own cup.

“Pamela knows,” Win told her before she could ask. “I couldn’t very well hide it from her, not for long.”

“Oh. Do you think . . . I should tell Charles?” she asked uncertainly. “I don’t want him to think I’m a coward.”

“You are _far_ from a coward, my dear, and as for telling him, I’d say yes,” Win replied, blowing a little over the surface of his cup,” but the matter is up to you. I will say this, however---” and he gave her a solemn look, “For all we know Charles, too, may have his _own_ ghost.”

She hadn’t considered that, and suddenly the thought of him all alone in the house on Acorn Street made her throat ache. 

Win set his cup down and sighed. “I’m planting fears where there may be none; forgive me my dear. The two of you have each other, and you’re well-suited in many ways. You bring out the better in my son, and I’m pleased to have lived long enough to see it happen.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte murmured. “He’s a wonderful man and I’m blessed.”

Win gave a wry smile. “He’s _become_ a better man to be sure. Now drink that up so I can wash the cups and avoid Mrs. Linden’s wrath in the morning.”

She dried as he washed, and they took the elevator up together. On the second-floor landing, Charlotte impulsively hugged Win, and although taken aback for a moment, he gently returned the hug.

“Sleep,” he ordered lightly. “And remember when you know your ghost, you lose part of the fear. Goodnight, Charlotte.”

“Goodnight,” she yawned and toddled back to bed, much comforted.


	28. Chapter 28

The wedding of Charlotte Lucia Colombe to Charles Emerson Winchester III took place on the sunny mid-morning of September 12th, 1953, in the sunken garden at Jedidiah Hastings’ Back Bay home. Pastor Henry McHugh of the Church of the Covenant officiated, and the bride was given away by her father amid much mutual sniffling.

Frankly Charles was a little damp-eyed himself, well-aware of how amazing the moment was. All the flurry and fury of the last two weeks had been worth it, he realized. A handful of dear friends were here, and judging from the telegrams piled on the gift table, several absent ones were sending their good wishes as well. Honoria was beaming, his mother was red-eyed with joy and standing next to him, Charlotte shone like the angel she was.

Pastor Henry, a round little man with heavy glasses smiled at them both and began the ceremony, his low voice carrying through the garden. As he did so, Charles felt Charlotte’s cool fingers seek his, and he wove his with hers as they stood, waiting for the proper moment to give their responses.

He was nervous, Charles realized. Not about getting married, but about making sure things went well. After two years of living in uncertainty and constant anticipation for the worst, the very idea that he could have everything he wanted all in one fell swoop was . . . almost worrying. Too good to be true.

A little squeeze to his grip broke his thoughts and he shot a sidelong glance to see Charlotte returning it through her veil, a sweet smirk on her lips. Instantly Charles came back to the moment in time to rumble his ‘I do,” to Pastor Henry’s question about whether or not he would take this woman in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer as long as they both would live.

Charlotte’s voice trembled a bit in her response but her “I do” came through clearly, and then it was the moment for him to slide the half-carat heart-cut diamond onto her finger. “With this ring I thee _wed_ , Beloved.” Charles murmured pleased to see how perfect looked, and he’d nearly forgotten he would be receiving one himself until Charlotte caught his hand and gaze. She in turn took the beautiful band from Honoria’s thumb and slipped it onto his finger, twisting the hammered gold band up it as she murmured, “with this ring, I _thee_ wed, Charles.”

As the pastor pronounced them man and wife, Charles felt a wave of dizzy joy surge through him, leaving him dazed.

Married. 

Good Lord.

“A-hem,” Pastor Henry cleared his throat, and with alacrity, Charles caught the edges of Charlotte’s veil, lightly flipping it over her coronet of pearls to reveal her delighted smile. He bent to kiss her as she stretched up to do the same, meeting halfway to the light applause of the assembled, but Charles barely heard it, caught up as he was in the soft press of Charlotte’s mouth against his.

When they reluctantly parted, he caught her small hands and kissed each one, wanting to keep the moment just a little longer. Pastor Henry presented them as “Doctor and Missus Winchester,” and after a quick closing prayer it was done, people coming forward to them.

They moved around the garden, shaking hands and hugging people; at least Charlotte hugged them. Charles accepted the claps on the shoulder and firm hand grips of his father and Cousin Alfred as well as Hastings before being suddenly engulfed in a bear hug by Francisco Colombe.

“Blessed!” his father-in-law blurted, his eyes red but his grin infectious. “I’m so _blessed_ to see my daughter married to such a good man!”

“Francisco,” Charles soothed a bit, trying not to laugh. “ _I’m_ the blessed one.”

“That too,” Francisco agreed. “Such a joyous day!”

Charles nodded and gently disengaged himself, directing the man towards the garden table of champagne glasses before turning to face Catherine Edgemont. “Cathy.”

His former crush looked tall, elegant, and by his professional judgment, about six months along.

“Charles,” she murmured, kissing his cheek lightly. “It’s so good to see you, and married! I never thought---” she stopped suddenly, stricken at her near faux pas.

He gave her a chuckle and an easy out, feeling generous. “You weren’t the only one, and isn’t it nice to be wrong?”

Her relief was palpable. “Yes. Your bride seems utterly charming.”

“Charlotte is,” Charles agreed. He studied Catherine for a moment, pleased to see her looking fairly content herself. “I’d be delighted to introduce you once my mother releases her. How is Nathan these days?”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Caught up in politics, as usual. He sends his regrets but we got you a nice pair of Adirondack chairs, hand-crafted.”

“Thank you,” Charles nodded at her belly. “So, congratulations! When is the, er, blessed event?”

Catherine gave a shy smile, dropping a hand to rub the rounded curve of her dress front. “Doctor Colman says in three months, so a Christmas baby most likely.”

“Colman, Colman . . . Aubrey Colman?” Charles asked, mentally running through the roster for Boston General in his head. “Blond, tends to blink a lot?”

Catherine giggled, “Yes, but he’s a good obstetrician. Your mother tells me you’re going to be head of thoracic surgery at Boston General by the by; congratulations again.”

Charles thanked her once more and after some small talk she toddled away towards one of the tables with chairs, leaving him to smile at Honoria, who brought him a flute of champagne.

“You n-n-need this,” she informed her brother saucily.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I do.” Charles sipped it and looked at his sister, who looked adorable in her pale blue Maid of Honor tea dress. “All right let’s have it; you’re clearly _dying_ to tell me something, ‘Noria.”

“A-A-Alfred is trying to get Father to ap-p-point him to the board,” Honoria whispered, her expression merry. “And he’s w-w-wheedling for the yacht.”

“Oh that won’t happen,” Charles growled. “Not in a pig’s valise.”

Honoria nodded and added, “B-B-But it’s fun to watch him t-try. Going to t-t-take Charlotte out soon?”

“Possibly,” Charles admitted. “I’m not sure if she likes sailing. Still, Alfred is not going to get a single grubby digit on the _Salem Breeze_ as long as you and Father draw breath.”

Honoria nodded, and Charles rubbed her shoulder lightly in support. His sister adored the yacht and was the best sailor of the three of them, often taking the helm during the weekend jaunts out in the harbor when they were younger. With a pang Charles realized how much he missed those trips. “We’ll have to go out soon,” he told his sister, who nodded.

He joined Charlotte over at the gift table, speaking quietly to her as they were being herded by the photographer for a few pictures near the bird bath on the other end of the sunken garden. “So, holding up all right, Missus Winchester?”

“Fairly well, Doctor Winchester,” she snickered. “I’ve fielded questions about my dress, my education, my religion and my social standing. Oh, and your mother offered to give me a little chat on what to expect on my wedding night.”

“What?” startled, Charles stared at her and nearly put his hand in the birdbath. Fortunately Charlotte caught it and prevented the minor disaster.

“All right, I’m going to set up the tripod, so don’t you two go away!” the photographer chirped, stepping a few feet back.

Charlotte giggled. “Well she knew _my_ mother had passed away years ago, and felt it was important that I know just what to expect . . . really, it was a very sweet offer on her part, and good practice for when she’s got to give the talk to Honoria eventually.”

“Please tell me you and my mother did not _actually_ . . .” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, aghast at the entire idea.

“We did not. I assured her that as a nurse and a morgue attendant I was perfectly familiar with male anatomy and that I was very touched by her concern for our happiness,” Charlotte replied, her own cheeks pink.

“Oh thank _God_ ,” Charles spluttered. “There are still _some_ aspects of our life I’d like to keep to ourselves.”

“Smile!” the photographer commanded and they did, blinded for the moment by the flash. Charlotte took his hand and squeezed it.

“I did promise her I’d be gentle with you,” she teased. Charles pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her waist and practically pinning Charlotte to his side.

“We’ll see about _that_ now, won’t we?” he replied, shifting his grip to goose her just as the next flash went off.


	29. Chapter 29

The honeymoon suite at the Parker House nearly took Charlotte’s breath away; she clung to Charles since he insisted on carrying her over the threshold, and then stood with her in his arms, delighted at her wide eyes and spluttering.

“It’s enormous!” she blurted, craning to look around at the luxurious rooms done in rich polished wood and pale creams and browns. “This is too much, mio orso!”

“Nonsense,” Charles replied, reluctantly setting her down. “We’re only going to be married once, and it deserves to be memorable.”

Charlotte took a few steps, looking around like a cat in an unfamiliar house. Then she turned and smiled at Charles. “You chose it because we can simply walk downstairs for your favorite dinner tonight.”

“There was that advantage, yes,” he admitted with a smirk of his own before coming over and taking her hand in his. “I’m sorry that we must delay a true honeymoon until I’m established at Boston General, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a little privilege for the next few days, Beloved. We have each other and room service and everything else can wait as far as I’m concerned.”

She hugged him, squeezing him tightly. “I concur. So . . . I think it’s time you introduced me to this baked scrod you’re so fond of, and afterwards . . . ?”

“Afterwards,” he echoed sweetly, “will be the culmination of the best day of my life.”

Charlotte blinked and looked up at him with tenderness. “Mine too.”

She unpacked, aware that Charles was doing the same somewhere outside the bathroom and the sweet tingle of joy sent little shivers through her as she did so. Charlotte was grateful that her father was staying with the Winchesters, and that they were going to take him on a tour of the city while she and Charles . . . slept in. The thought made her giggle, and she finished laying out her toiletries before stepping out. Her new husband was studying the room service menu and glanced up at her with a smile.  
“Hungry?” he asked.

“I could do with a bite,” Charlotte agreed. “It’s been a few hours since our cake and champagne.”

He checked his watch and nodded. “Shall we then?”

They made their way down to the restaurant and after a quiet word with the reservation attendant were ushered to a private booth of plush leather and fine linens. Charlotte allowed Charles to help seat her and looked across at him when he joined her, feeling warm and happy. She shot a flirtatious glance over the top of her menu and winked; he cleared his throat but smiled back.

“My, we are a lonnnnng way from the mess tent,” she observed, noting the number of exquisite dishes listed on the vellum pages.

“Amen to that,” Charles agreed. He set down his menu and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Although I admit I do miss some of the people.”

Charlotte nodded. “Kellye, yes. I owe her a thank you for that lovely tureen. And Henderson and Tucker. They were good guys doing a tough job.”

One corner of Charles’ mouth turned up. “God help me but I even miss Pierce, sarcastic lout that he could be. I wonder what hospital will put up with him and for how long.”

Charlotte giggled. “He’ll go somewhere where he can be in the thick of it, I guarantee you that, Charles. For all his talk about slowing down he liked the challenges. I can see B.J. in a local hospital north of San Francisco sure, but Hawkeye? He’ll end up in some city. Augusta maybe or even New York. I _loved_ his telegram.”

“Oh yes--- _Congratulations Winchester stop. Condolences Colombe, Stop. Next stop obstetrics, stop,_ ” Charles muttered, but the smirk still came through and she giggled.  
An elegant sommelier glided over with a bottle of champagne on a tray. “Doctor and Mrs. Winchester. Congratulations on your wedding from our staff and Mr. Hastings.”

“Oh!” Charlotte watched as the man deftly uncorked the bottle, poured them their flutes and glided away after Charles had tasted it and nodded. “Dare I ask?”

“Nineteen forty-nine Bollinger,” Charles sighed. “Magnificent.”

She sipped it, loving the flavor and tingle, and clinked her glass with his in a quiet salute to each other. “To us.”

“To us,” Charles repeated.

They ordered the scrod and once the waiter had slipped away Charlotte toyed with her ring, still amazed at how beautiful it was. The diamond had been one of three that Charles offered and the one she’d adored at first sight. She reached over and took his hand, aware of the small scab between the defined metacarpal bones and sighed. “So what do you want for us?” Charlotte murmured. “In these next few years?”

To his credit Charles didn’t reply right away; he thrust his jaw out a moment as he thought, and when he finally spoke his voice was mild. “A good life together. Purpose and meaning and laughter and love. Family and all that that entails.”

“Then we’re off to a good start,” Charlotte chuckled. “So you shall be at Boston General, making a name for yourself. I wish I could be there too,” she sighed, trying not to sound regretful.

“As do I,” Charles replied, his expression shifting to one of remorse. “Unfortunately the departmental anti-nepotism policy is fairly clear about family members working together.”

She nodded. “Oh I know, I know. Still. I’m so used to working—doing something--that’s hard to adjust.”

“Oh your days will fill up,” Charles told her softly. “My mother will invite you into the Junior League and her gardening club and on the boards of various charities. And there’s always your own painting and all that entails managing our home.”

“And managing _you_ ,” Charlotte added impishly. “You’ll be good practice for me.”

“ _I_ am ridiculously easy to manage,” Charles murmured loftily. “Keep me fed and reasonably rested the rest will take care of itself.”

“That makes you sound like a prize poodle,” Charlotte chortled.

“I’m trying to be easy to care for,” he protested, but with a small smile. “Beloved, I appreciate that you went through college and earned your nursing degree and I’m sorry that at the moment you cannot utilize it. However once we start a family . . .”

“True,” Charlotte acknowledged. “Speaking of which . . . is there a plan for that too?”

Seeing him blush brought a rush of tenderness, and Charlotte felt his fingers squeeze hers. “What are your thoughts on the matter?”

She took a breath. “I’d like to give us a little time to settle in _ourselves_ ,” Charlotte admitted. “We’re already dealing with re-establishing our lives, and routines, and the occasional nightmare—” she stopped, biting her lip as Charles eyed her keenly.

“Nightmare?” his voice was gentle.

With a sigh Charlotte told him about the squeaking tree branch, the flashback to Korea and the gentle conversation with his father. Charles listened quietly, his hand still holding hers the entire time. When she was done Charlotte felt better. “Silly I know, but . . . .”

“I wish you had called,” Charles told her earnestly. “I would have come over immediately. It’s not silly—"

The waiter arrived with their food and Charlotte murmured her thanks as he set her plate before her. The dish smelled wonderful; sweet and warm and Charlotte felt her mouth water. 

Charles reluctantly let go of her hand to set his napkin in his lap, but after the waiter left he didn’t even look at the plate, reaching for her hand again. “Charlotte, Beloved, I’m serious. Korea was . . . traumatic. For both of us. I’ve had a few déjà vu moments myself.”

“Charles?” she looked at him even as she picked up her fork. He stared down into his plate.

“When I went in for the practical application last week for my position I was given an upper bowel re-section under supervision. Theoretically a walk in the park since it was a matter of suturing two hernias, removing septic tissue and anchoring the work.”

Charlotte could picture the surgery in question and nodded. “Yes, you could practically do that blindfolded.”

“Indeed,” Charles shot her a little smile. “I performed with my usual precision and thoroughness. In twenty minutes.”

Charlotte blinked. 

“And after I’d finished and knotted the last closing suture . . . I called for the next patient, Charlotte. There in front of the surgical team and observers in the theater, I actually stepped back and waited for someone to take the patient away and bring another one. Reflex, ingrained from those unforgiving hours and endless waves of wounded.”

“Ohh Charles,” she squeezed his fingers, grateful when his grip tightened on hers. He looked up, his smile crooked.

“Prescott laughed. He made some comment about how my amazing confidence was just what they were looking for, and everyone else congratulated me on my efficiency. I was too stunned to say anything but it took a while for me to regain my equilibrium.”

“I wish you’d _told_ me,” she blurted, and when they looked at each other, they both chuckled softly.

“And this is one of the many reasons I’m grateful beyond measure to have you by my side, Charlotte. What we’ve gone through together is yet another bond I respect.”

“Yes,” came her simple reply. “And now, let’s eat before the fish gets cold, dear.”


	30. Chapter 30

By the time they left the restaurant Charlotte had become a fan of baked scrod, much to his delight. She linked her arm in his and they made their way to the elevator, quiet and content, although Charles felt the lovely flutter of heat in his belly, a heat that had nothing to do with the meal they’d finished.

As they stepped inside, Charlotte stepped away from him and looked up into his eyes, her own bright with love and a hint of mischief. “It’s been a long and busy day my darling so I think we ought to get to bed early tonight.”

“How astonishing,” Charles played along. “My very thoughts precisely.”

“Yes, I have Mass tomorrow,” Charlotte informed him, and started to giggle, probably because of his dismayed expression, Charles realized.

“Late Mass,” she assured him with a grin. “Possibly _evening_ Mass.”

“Better,” Charles agreed. “Would you like the bathroom first?”

She did, and he slowly began to get ready for bed, methodically packing his worn clothes and laying out fresh ones for the next day, feeling ridiculously happy. Charles found himself humming as he pulled on his pajamas, and when he slid into the decadent comfort of the bed, he gave a little sigh. 

The bathroom door opened and Charlotte peeked out, waggling her fingers at him. “Not asleep yet?”

“No,” he smirked back. She sailed out, displaying a short diaphanous gown of pale pink that clung to her figure in ways that Charles immediately appreciated; he sat up against the headboard and gave a little purr. “That’s nice.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte murmured, pleased. She came over to the bed and slid in next to him, giving a sigh. “It sounds scandalous, but I’m glad we already, um, _know_ each other.”

“It does take the pressure off, but none of the heat,” Charles rolled to face her, reaching to stroke her shoulder. “You are breathtaking, Charlotte.”

She studied his face, her expression full of love and hope. “And you are more than I ever hoped I’d be lucky enough to have in my life.”

“The sentiment is mutual,” Charles whispered, pulling her to him. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”

Her breathing quickened, he noted, particularly when he shifted to slide a hand up under the back of her pretty nightie to toy with the dimples at the base of her spine. Charlotte had velvety skin, and Charles loved feeling how warm and alive she was. At the moment her hands were plucking open his pajama buttons and stroking his furry chest; when Charlotte moved to kiss the hollow at his throat Charles groaned.

It still astonished him how easily the two of them could shift from being rational and civilized people into something more sensually primed and basic with each other, attuned to taste and touch. Charles had spent most of his life keeping his libido in check and refocusing his frustrations through his vocation to the betterment of his skills. But now with Charlotte opening to him with wanton sweetness, he let himself savor the satisfaction in making her breathless with his kisses. 

She wriggled, sliding a leg up over his pajama-clad hip to pull him closer, her mouth sliding along his collarbone. “If you think you’re keeping these on tonight, think _again_ , Orso mio!”

“Habit,” he admitted, smiling against her temple. “One I’m willing to change for you.”

“You’d better,” came Charlotte’s light-hearted grumble and she set to work stripping him down. That delighted Charles as well, this whole-hearted enthusiasm for his body. He’d never thought himself handsome in the least; distinguished at times, but more often than not Charles still harbored memories of a gawky, gangly adolescence fraught with loneliness. He’d gained the height and broad shoulders of a Winchester early on, along with the alopecia, which he’d accepted with stoic resignation. Despite his mother’s assurances that any woman would be lucky to have him, deep down Charles had never quite believed her.

He cupped one rounded cheek of Charlotte’s ass and squeezed, enjoying the way she ground against him, laughing. “That’s a very _Italian_ move there,” she informed him. 

“You have a veritable peach of an ass.”

“You say,” Charlotte sighed, pushing down his pajama bottoms, “the nicest things.”

They stopped talking. Charles found himself moving down Charlotte’s body, nuzzling and kissing his way over her lovely contours, marveling at the exquisite curve of her pert breasts, and the round little dimple of her navel. She let him caress her impatiently, her hands cupping his shoulders and neck restlessly until he lightly lipped the topmost curls of her sex.

“Ohhh,” Charlotte whimpered, and when he glanced up the length of her body she was biting her lower lip, her gaze heavy with lust. “You . . . ?”

He gave a little purposeful rumble making his intentions clear as his own body reacted. Charles brushed his nose against the silky floss, feeling a rush of heat in his own groin at her scent. Charlotte gave another little squeak as he splayed his hands along the insides of her thighs, pressing them open wider.

So beautiful. He’d always thought women’s bodies were works of art, particularly this most intimate spot. And under him Charlotte was a glorious masterpiece: her delicate folds with their fascinating shades of color; her sweet humid pheromones and musk that never failed to sharpen his lust to an almost painful level. Charles tasted her.

The stuff of his deepest fantasies.

He pressed kisses along inner sides of her thighs, flicking his tongue down the ticklish crease and up the other, enjoying her breathless gasp before playfully moving to suckle one petal-like labia and then the other.

Charlotte’s hands slid to his shoulders, her nails pressing down against the muscle, reminding him of a kitten’s kneading. Charles nosed his way along the slick trough of her cleft, circling the stiffening button ever so lightly with the flat of his tongue, preparing to tease her for as long as it took her to demand more of him.

She was succulent, and had he been younger it would have been impossible not to climax at the mere taste of her but Charles had enough patience and concentration now to stay focused on Charlotte’s breathing and moans, feeling intensely delighted moments later when her hips began writhe. Charles cupped her ass with his hands and kept his caresses light and steady until he felt her shudder under him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her thighs tightening around his ears.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhtiahhhhhhhmo!” came her delighted sigh and Charlotte slumped, her legs opening up enough for him to rise up on his elbows to gaze up at her with pure smugness, kissing one knee before speaking.

“You taste divine,” he murmured, moving to crawl up over her sprawled form and settling on top of her. Charlotte’s gaze was slightly unfocused but her hands slid to caress his rigid shaft in loving strokes.

“Ti voglio,” came her hungry sigh. “My God how I _want_ you!”

“And I you,” Charles growled, pleasure surging through his erection, making it throb and ache against her fingers. Through the haze of lust he looked towards the nightstand but Charlotte shook her head, eyes bright.

“Not this time,” she pleaded. “My courses are due in a few days and for tonight— _this_ night—I want nothing between us. Please?”

He nodded, shifting between her thighs, letting her help guide him and with one slow thrust Charles slid into the slick snugness f her body. Both of them moaned in pleasure, and Charlotte wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in deeper.

They rocked together, kissing, giving into the heat between them and after a while Charles felt the unstoppable pleasure surging through him, his climax erupting in a flare of joy and desire as he growled Charlotte’s name against her shoulder. She kissed the side of his face, holding him until his spasms slowed and he sprawled on her, replete.

“A beast,” he murmured, sighing. “You have turned a normally civilized man into a beast, Charlotte Winchester. I hope you’re _pleased_ with yourself. And I love you more than I ever thought I could.”

“Pffft! You were a beast before I met you,” she countered sleepily, rubbing her cheek against his. “And I love you too, Charles. You are my beloved.”

After they’d cleaned up they lay together in the darkness, holding each other, content with the quiet joy between them.

“Tomorrow it starts,” Charles murmured, kissing her temple. “The rest of our lives together.”

“Mmmm,” Charlotte yawned. “Then we should get some sleep and get ready for it, orso mio. I will have my hands full with you.”

Charles laughed, not willing to deny it, and they drifted off into gentle and easy sleep in each other’s arms.

End


End file.
